


Safe

by TheMightyFlynn



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Changing Tenses, Developing Friendships, Gen, Inferi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV First Person, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Regulus Black Lives, Slow Build, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-05-20 22:26:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 24,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14903253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMightyFlynn/pseuds/TheMightyFlynn
Summary: Regulus has only ever known the cold and the wet. Or has he? When warmth comes back into his life, it triggers his memories.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A few things before you read this fic! There is a POV change from 3rd to 1st person. It was done on purpose, so please don't try to tell me to change it!  
> This is a very strange fic. I do have plans to continue it, which means the rating and the tags will most likely change. So will the pairings, if I decide to go that way. However, I have been fighting against the worst bout of writer's block I have ever had these past two months. I will try to keep the update times short.  
> Also! This is my 100th Harry Potter fic! So I just wanted to say thank you to anyone who has read, kudos-ed, and commented on my stuff over the years! <3

Cold. Wet.

It was all Regulus knew. Or had known. He had no idea whether this was how he had been born, or whether he had been thrust here at some point. He had no idea of anything, really.

Cold. Wet.

It wasn’t too bad. There were others here. They kept him company.

Cold. Wet.

He recalled movement when the two others had arrived. The ones surrounding him had moved, trying to reach them, stretching their hands out. Regulus had tried as well. One voice was familiar, casting spells and giving commands. How he had known the voice’s owner, though, he could not remember.

Cold. Wet.

A brief moment of heat and bright warmth had happened, once, soon after the familiar voice. Regulus did not know what it was. He had been too far from the source of it all. Moving with the others, he had tried to reach it; tried to touch the bright flash of light. It had been gone too quickly, though. _They_ had been gone too quickly.

Cold. Wet.

Now he rests in his cold, wet space. The others are still here, still waiting with him. It is safe here. Familiar. He cannot recall anything that came before it.

Light. Warmth. _Pain_.

Regulus is dragged up and out of his comforting cold. Rough hands pull him out of the water, and press him to the cold stones. He coughs, taking his first breaths of air in many long years. Voices assault his ears, all of them shouting and cheering. Others are pulled up and out of the water. Some are coughing and breathing, just as he is. Others are… He shudders, seeing the desiccated corpses that Voldemort had cast into watery graves.

_Pain_.

It is too much. The lights are too bright. He gasps as magic washes over him.

“No.”

_Pain_.

“Stop, please,” he tries to beg, but his voice is gone. It has not been used in too long. “Please.”

“Is that…?”

“ _Regulus_?”

There is a familiar tone to one of the voices. Regulus tries to look up to see who it is, but the bright lights blind him. Raising a leaden arm, he blocks the light as best he can.

“Regulus Black? Sirius’ brother?”

Someone is kneeling in front of him. Someone with messy black hair.

“James?” he splutters, still trying to catch his breath.

A warm hand lands on his shoulder, gripping tightly and holding him steady. It is a stark contrast to the cold he has known for too long. He leans into it.

“Harry,” the voice responds. “James was my father.”

Regulus blinks, unable to see through the bright lights shining all around. _Not James_. He nods.

“We have to get you out of here. We’ll get you warmed up,” Not James tells him.

Regulus is dragged up before he can agree. His legs do not want to work. They collapse as he tries to put weight on them.

_Pain_.

“Can’t. Don’t.”

Magic washes over him again and he is raised into the air. A stretcher floats silently over to them and Regulus is placed on top. Not James presses a hand to Regulus’ forehead, pushing him to lie down. Regulus reaches out, grasping Not James’ wrist. The stretcher pauses in its movement, Not James standing still beside it.

“It’s alright, Regulus. You’re safe now. Voldemort is dead.”

_Safe_.

Regulus blinks, bringing Not James into focus before him. He is young; too young. He has seen a lot, that much is blatantly clear. Bags are beneath his eyes, grim lines surround his mouth, and a crease that appears between his eyes is too deep for someone so young. Regulus can see no lie in his eyes, however. He nods briefly and closes his eyes.

_Safe_.

He relaxes. Not James had said that Voldemort had been defeated. That was enough for him. With the cold and wet seeping from him slowly, Regulus finally sleeps.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty, decisions have been made! This story will stay gen. It will be Regulus & Harry rather than a pairing between them. There will be background relationships, but they won't be the focus.  
> Because I have a habit of swearing like a sailor, though, the rating will most likely go up. :)

“…his skin integrity is poor. Worse than some of the others we pulled out.”

“But he _is_ improving, right? He’s alive.”

“‘Alive’ does not mean that he will survive, Harry.”

The voices come to me as though through cottonwool. It sounds like they are whispering, but they are still too loud; too close. Pain blooms behind my closed eyes and there is little I can do to prevent it. Sucking in a breath, I let out a sound, trying to move.

“No, no, Regulus. Stay still.”

The whispered voice comes back, closer now. It is still too loud.

“Sleep. You’re safe.”

Unfamiliar magic washes over me. Oblivion takes me again.

*~*  


“…some of the others have not made it.”

“I know. But a lot of them have.”

“ _Some_ , Harry. This spell was never meant to revive so many people.”

“‘Some’ is more than we thought originally.” There is a reluctance to the man’s voice that I do not recall hearing from him before. “And how do you know that it wasn’t designed for a bunch of people? Dumbledore was many things, Kingsley. Stupid wasn’t one of them.”

_Dumbledore_. The name sends alarm bells ringing in my mind. My heart begins to race and a too-loud beeping starts beside me. I gasp, the pain behind my eyes spreading quickly once again.

“Regulus!”

I do not even get to hear anything the whispered voice says this time before the magic washes over me again. My consciousness fades rapidly.

*~*  


“Here again, Mr. Potter?”

“I… I’m sorry.” The man sighs, much louder than the whisper his voice is. “I feel responsible for him, somehow. He’s my Godfather’s brother, I can’t just leave him here alone.”

“As far as we can tell, he is completely unaware of anything around him, Harry, you know that.”

I want to scream. I want to move. I want to let them know that I _know_ what they are saying. The magic holding me still is too strong, however.

“He’s reacted to things before.”

There is a touch of desperation to the whispered voice. I have heard the same desperation from it numerous times before. This Mr. Potter, whoever he is – was it the same Not James who had hauled me out of the water? – apparently has some kind of attachment to me. I have no idea how, as the only Potter I know is James, and this man has already told me that he is _not_ James. Vague memories struggle to float to the forefront of my fuzzy mind, something about Sirius and a Godfather, but I cannot seem to grasp them. I do not even know how long ago the memories are from, my mind is so muddled.

“I believe that you may have to brace yourself for some disappointment, Mr. Potter. Not everyone has survived this ordeal, and it is not looking good for Mr. Black here.”

The words should send panic spiralling through me. They do not, however. A sense of calm washes over me, instead. Whether that calm is from myself or an outside influence, I have no idea. It sends me into a peaceful sleep, deep enough that the whispered voices do not wake me again that day.

*~*  


The pain behind my eyes is what wakes me again. I still have no sense of time, so working out how long I have been here – wherever _here_ is – is impossible. The sense of calm that had washed over me the last time I recall being awake is still with me, even if it is being pushed aside by the pain. Frowning, I attempt to raise a hand to pinch the bridge of my nose, but am prevented by the strong magic that has prohibited me from moving each time I have woken.

“Regulus?”

It is the same whispered voice that is always here. I briefly wonder whether the man has even left since the day I was dragged out of the water before he places a hand gently on my shoulder. The warmth from his hand is strangely welcome; a stark contrast to the cold I have known for so long.

“Hurts.”

My voice cracks, unused as I am to using it. I do not even know whether what I have said is understandable or not. A fresh wave of pain washes through me, making my eyeballs feel like they are trying to burst from my skull. I wince and immediately regret it.

“It’s the Healing charms. I’m sorry. There’s nothing that can be really done except to knock you out again.”

There is true remorse in the man’s voice, which I find strange. I do not have time to ponder his reactions to me, however. The pain is spreading through my head, causing my teeth to begin to ache. Squeezing my eyes shut tight against it, I nod.

“I really am sorry.”

He removes his hand, sending a shock of loss through me. I shudder, the memory of the cold, dark water popping into my mind unbidden. It does not have the time to take hold of me, however, as the pain fades rapidly when the man’s magic relaxes my muscles and sends me back into the deep sleep again.


	3. Chapter 3

The day I finally awake properly, nothing extraordinary has happened. One moment, I was in a deep sleep, and the next I am awake. The room I have been placed in is dark; the windows all covered and the door closed. There are no torches or sources of light at all, which I am thankful for, as I recall the pain of the lights when I was dragged out of the water.

_Water!_

Memories flood through me. A locket features heavily in them, practically buzzing with evil power. The cave is next, with its eerie black walls, and still lake.

_Voldemort!_

My left forearm burns, a remembered ghost of pain calling me to a hated master. His red eyes flash with determination and pride. I know what he is, though; what he has done to try to survive.

_Horcruxes._

Kreacher and the potion in the middle of the lake come back to me last. I recall the terrible thirst and the horrifying memories that plagued me as I drank the potion Lord Voldemort had left his Horcrux in. I recall sending Kreacher away with the order to destroy the locket and tell no one of what we had done, then… Nothing.

Blackness. Cold. Hundreds of moving bodies surrounding me, dragging me in with them.

Panic races through me, sending my heart beating wildly. I struggle to sit up, but my muscles object to such a sudden movement. I force myself to move, however. There is little time to lose if Voldemort is to be stopped. Someone other than me has to be informed about what he has done; how to stop him.

“What is going on in there?” The voice comes from outside the door. “This man is not to be disturbed… Oh.”

The door bursts open, flooding the room with glaring light. I cannot see through the tears the light brings to my eyes, but I struggle to stand anyway. I must get to someone knowledgeable enough to understand the importance of destroying Voldemort’s Horcruxes.

“Dumbledore,” I try to say, but it comes out as a strangled, jumbled noise.

The man who enters the room places both hands on my shoulders, holding me on the bed. It does not take much force, as my body is weak from inactivity.

“Mr. Black, I need you to lie back down.”

The calm to the man’s voice sends annoyance through me. Does he not understand how important it is that I get out of here? I try to brush his hands from my shoulders, but am unable to move him.

“Dumbledore,” I try again, this time managing to pronounce the two ‘d’ sounds. “Please.” That word comes out almost normally, telling me that I _can_ speak, but am out of practice.

“My Head of Department is on her way. I need you to be careful; you may hurt yourself. Please lie back down.”

I try once again to push his hands from my shoulders but, once again, he resists easily. Running footsteps sound outside the door, which bursts open a few seconds later, revealing a frazzled-looking woman. Her blonde hair is flying all over the place and her blue eyes are just as wild.

“Oh my…” She immediately turns and begins shouting something I cannot make out to someone behind her in the hallway. “Mr. Black,” she greets me when she faces me once again.

“Dumbledore. I need Dumbledore.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t understand what you’re saying,” the woman informs me as she enters the room. She appears wary of me; her body language a little stiff. “I have a spell that may help, if you will permit me?”

Strong magic washes over me the second I nod my assent. My throat burns, causing me to groan. Leaning forward into the man’s hands, I squeeze my eyes shut against the pain. I know I cannot submit to it, though. Re-opening my eyes the second I believe myself capable of speech, I look the woman directly in the eyes.

“I need to speak to Dumbledore. Voldemort has Horcruxes and is attempting immortality.”

I expect panic. I expect fear. I expect… Well, anything other than a deep sadness combined with a touch of sympathy. She places her hands over the top of the man’s hands on my shoulders.

“It’s alright, we know.”

She tries to push me back onto the bed again, using a little more pressure than the man had. I shake my head.

“No, you do not understand. I need to speak to Albus Dumbledore. He is the only one who can stop him.”

The sympathy in the woman’s eyes increases. “Mr. Black, believe me, everything is fine. I understand that you think you need to leave, but I need you to lie down again, please. Everything has been taken care of.”

My skin tingles as annoyance rushes through me. Drawing on all of my inherent authority as one of the last of the Black line, I draw myself up into as straight a position as I can manage.

“No, as I keep telling you, you do _not_ understand. Do you know what a Horcrux is? Do you know how to kill one? Do you comprehend anything I am saying? I need to speak to Albus Dumbledore. _Now_ , if you please.”

The woman sighs. “I knew this was going to happen,” she mutters. “Jeptha?”

The man who had entered the room first glances to her, curiosity in his gaze. “Yes, Healer Bell?”

“I need you to fetch Harry for me, please. Tell him it’s an emergency.” When the man leaves the room, she returns her attention to me. “Now, Mr. Black, I need you to lie down. Being up like this is not safe for you. You have been through a lot and need to rest.”

The patient tone to her voice sets my nerves on edge. Reaching up, I grasp one of her wrists.

“Do you have any idea of who I am? Who my family are? I will not be spoken to like this by anyone. Now, believe me when I say that I have been incredibly patient with you. I have information that is vital to the war effort; to _defeating Voldemort_.”

I place the emphasis on the words in case she is as dense as she appears. She does not even flinch away from hearing the name, however. She merely sighs, a fresh wave of sympathy washing over her features.

“I didn’t want to do this without Harry here,” she mumbles, almost as though to herself. “Mr. Black, I have something to tell you. I need you to relax, though, because this will come as a bit of a shock.”

Unable to help myself, I roll my eyes. Apparently this woman _is_ as dense as she appears.

“Mr. Black,” she continues before pausing, a small frown creasing her brow. “I don’t know how to tell you this, so I am just going to say it. You are in the year two thousand. Voldemort is dead, as is Dumbledore.”

I blink at her. “ _What_ are you talking about?”

“It is the year two thousand, Mr. Black. You have been believed dead for the past twenty-one years. I’m sorry.”

Her words do not make any sense to me. Taking a deep breath, I open my mouth to tell her to not be so preposterous, but I am interrupted by the arrival of someone else. Standing in the doorway of the room, the man pants, trying to catch his breath. His wild black hair gives his identity away immediately.

“James Potter.”

Something washes over the man’s face; something that I cannot quite identify. He steps into the room carefully.

“No, I’m Harry. James was my father.”

The words trigger more memories that come flooding back to me all at once. The voices speaking when I was unconscious, something about a spell of Dumbledore’s invention that had been cast, Not James informing me of his true name in the cave, and the watery grave they had pulled me out of come back to me in an instant.

_Hundreds of moving bodies dragging me in with them…_  
  
The bodies. Inferi. I knew it at the time, but also knew I was intelligent enough to avoid them.

_Dead_.

I have been dead for twenty-one years. Locked away in a watery grave, magically sustained to do Lord Voldemort’s bidding. Protecting the Horcrux I had worked so hard to discover and destroy.

My heart is racing so fast that I cannot breathe. Glancing between the two people standing before me, watching me intently, I try to speak, try to vocalise everything that is flowing through me. It is too much, however. With another flash of pain, my consciousness fades swiftly.


	4. Chapter 4

_Dead_.

My eyes snap open. The room is once again dark, but there is no whispered voice to wake me. My hands flex as complicated emotions race through me, all jumbled together. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, fighting against a wave of nausea that washes through me.

_I have been dead for twenty-one years._

The idea is… terrifying. Questions run through me, each as unanswerable as the last. What have I missed? Where is my family? What was the result of the war? Is Voldemort truly dead? And what about Dumbledore? How could anyone be powerful enough to kill that old codger? I huff out a breath as a second wave of nausea makes its way through me.

“Regulus?”

My eyes slide closed. It is the same quiet voice that has been whispering in my room so often in the recent past. Reluctantly, I turn my head and re-open my eyes.

“They told me you’d probably wake up today. I–”

“Don’t.”

The man – Harry? – stutters to a stop. He stares at me for a few seconds, his mouth gaping.

“I’m sorry.”

There is true remorse to his voice, but I ignore it. I cannot deal with anyone else’s guilt at this point in time. I stare back at him for a few seconds before turning my head and retuning to staring at the ceiling.

There is so much that I need to think through. How can I just accept what these people are telling me? I know the answer to that question immediately: I cannot. What if this is just a ploy by the opposing side? What if the memory of being dragged into that lake is false? That raises even more questions that I cannot answer right now.

Which side am I truly on? I could have answered that one very easily a mere year ago. Or is it twenty-two years ago? My eyes close again as my chest begins to ache.

If I have been captured, what do they want from me? I know that I have information that is vital to the other side’s war effort. Do they know that, though? And which one of them can I trust?

Just who is this Harry Potter, who looks so much like James? Is he a cousin? I highly doubt that he could be who he claims to be. That would mean believing them that I have supposedly been transported through time to the year two thousand. Or that I have technically been dead for that same amount of time. My head spins a little when I re-open my eyes to continue to stare at the ceiling.

“Harry.”

There is a sound like someone’s shoes scraping on the floor. I have to assume that the man jumped when I spoke, because I refuse to do him the courtesy of glancing his way.

“Yes?”

“Not James?”

The man sighs. “James… He was my dad. He died when I was a little over a year old. He and my mother, Lily, were killed by Voldemort after a friend of theirs betrayed them.”

“Pettigrew.”

A sharp intake of breath is the only response this Harry makes. The urge to glance over to see his reaction washes through me, but I ignore it.

“Yes,” he responds carefully after a pause. There is something strange to the tone of his voice, but I cannot make it out. “He gave our location away to Voldemort. They were both killed defending me.”

I shiver as a chill runs through me. If this is a made-up story, it is damn good. The man hasn’t hesitated when answering, with the exception of calling James his dad. I can easily attribute that to emotion. There is still a lingering doubt, however. How am I ever going to be able to believe any of this without some form of proof? All I have seen since waking is this room. I shake my head without thinking.

“Bullshit.”

“Excuse me?”

Taking a deep breath, I clench my hands into fists. Pressing my lips together in effort, I manage to sit up. The room spins wildly around me and this Harry stands to take a couple of steps towards me, his hand extended.

“Careful.”

Sitting on the bed with my hands clenched tightly by my side, I take a few steadying breaths. I did not know whether I would be capable of sitting up, considering how weak I was the last time I woke. This seems to have gone much better than I was dreading, however. The effort it takes to swing my legs over the side of the bed so I am sitting up straight nearly takes the rest of my depleted energy reserves.

“Regulus?” A warm hand lands on my shoulder, holding me steady on the edge of the bed. “What’s wrong?”

I huff out a disbelieving noise. “You. This.” I sweep a hand around the room. “Everything.”

With how close he is standing to me, it is now impossible for me to avoid looking at this Harry, as he claims to be. He truly does resemble James Potter. His eyes are softer, however. There is a lack of malice to this man that I recall being about James Potter. Tilting my head, I stare into his eyes.

“I cannot believe a single word you are saying.”

The deep crease I had noticed between his eyes at the lake has returned. It makes him look a lot older than what I must assume is his very young age. There is also something else there; a strange kind of sorrow to him.

“I know.” He sounds weary. “Hardly any of you have.”

The hand on my shoulder tightens for a few seconds before he moves away. I blink rapidly as he opens the door, flooding the dark room with bright light for a few seconds. I can hear him muttering something, but cannot quite make out what it is. My hand automatically reaches to my side to grasp the handle of my wand before I realise that I no longer possess it. Panic races through me for a few seconds until the door closes again and the man turns to face me.

“We’re tried again and again to convince different people we’ve revived that what we are telling them is the truth. I knew that you were taking a little longer than some of the others to come back, so I’ve been thinking about it. About how to convince you, I mean.” He runs a hand distractedly through his hair, causing it to stand on end at the back. “And I think there’s only one way to do that.”

Suspicion races through me, causing my eyebrows to draw down. I open my mouth to question him, but he speaks again before I can get any words out.

“Kreacher!”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is a bit late! Real life sucks, basically. :)

“Master?”

The incredibly familiar voice sends a jolt through me. I would recognise it anywhere, as Kreacher has served our family loyally for generations now. It takes a few seconds for him to enter the room, and when he finally does appear, my breath leaves me in a rush.

Stooped and leaning heavily on a walking cane, Kreacher appears to have aged decades overnight. He has been old for as long as I remember, but this is something different. From his walk, to the cane he leans on, to the extra scars I do not recall him having the last time I saw him, he has changed greatly. I blink, trying to work out just what has happened to him. Or if it even _is_ him.

“I said you could visit once he was properly awake, right? Well…”

The moment Kreacher’s eyes light on me, his entire demeanour changes. As he straightens, I can see him drawing on all of his dignity and pride. Working for the Black family for as long as he has, I know he believes that he is entitled to a little pride in himself. He is correct, of course. The Black family are and have been one of the premier pure-blood families in Britain for generations now. Working for us is an honour that any house-elf would give their eyeteeth for. He takes a few steps forward before stooping into a deep bow.

“Master Regulus. Kreacher is happy to return to your service.”

It is him. It must be. How else would a house-elf know my first name? Unless… My eyes flick from Kreacher before me to where this Harry stands beside the door.

“He can tell you things that only the true Kreacher would know,” Harry states, forestalling my question. “Ask him anything that only he would know. Something that I have no chance at guessing.”

He keeps his eyes locked on mine the entire time, clearly trying to convince me that he is telling the truth. I turn from him back to Kreacher without acknowledging him at all.

“Kreacher?”

He raises his head, an almost hopeful look in his eyes. “Yes, Master?”

A number of questions rush through my mind. I briefly consider asking him whether he managed to carry out my last command to him, but immediately think the better of it. If this truly is a ploy by the other side, then giving away my actions so early on is a bad move. I switch tactics, then, and aim for something that no one else other than Kreacher and I ever knew of.

“When I was six years old, I broke something in the house that you and I then covered up. What was it?”

“It was the vase that Mistress had on the dining room mantlepiece, Master,” Kreacher responds immediately. “It was knocked off the shelf when you were playing with one of your Christmas presents.”

“And how did we cover it up?”

Kreacher straightens even more, a look of joy crossing his face. “By blaming the blood-traitor Sirius, Master.”

A strange noise from the doorway grabs my attention. Harry is still standing exactly where he was, but there is a look on his face that tells me he does not approve of something that has been said. A fierce rush of accomplishment floods through me at having rattled him.

“And what was Sirius’ punishment, Kreacher?” I ask, my eyes fixed on Harry.

“He was rightfully beaten, Master.”

Something crosses Harry’s face, but I cannot identify it. With a small smile, I return my gaze to Kreacher.

“Kreacher. It is good to see you again.”

“Kreacher is happy to see his Master again, as well. Many things have happened in your absence, Master Regulus. Many, many things. Some are… not so happy, Master.”

The feeling of content spreading through me at my discovery that this truly is Kreacher is short-lived. The joy that had been lighting Kreacher’s face has left just as quickly as it began. His hand is clenched on the handle of the cane he is leaning on, and he glances between me and Harry, a worried look on his face.

“Go ahead, Kreacher,” Harry states, his voice neutral. “He probably wouldn’t believe me if I tried to tell him, anyway.”

“The Dark Lord has been defeated, Master,” Kreacher begins. “Kreacher helped to carry out your last command to him, with the assistance of Master Harry and his… friends.”

There is something strange to Kreacher’s tone when he says the word ‘friends’. I ignore it, however, as there is now a small niggle forming at the back of my mind. Sitting up a little straighter, I stare down at Kreacher.

“Go on.”

“We fought in your name, Master. We fought and we _won_. Grimmauld Place has been fixed up as well,” he continues, seemingly just speaking automatically.

It is a little strange to me that Kreacher feels comfortable enough around Harry to speak about family things. The niggle in the back of my mind begins to become a bit more insistent.

“Kreacher?”

“Master will find that his room has not been touched since he left–”

“Kreacher!”

He flinches before closing his mouth. “Yes, Master?”

“Where is Mother?”

Father died earlier this year, before I made the discovery about The Dark Lord’s Horcruxes. Or is it truly twenty-one years ago? Either way, my chest still aches at the thought of it. He was a dark and imposing man, so to see him wasting away with Dragon Pox, it honestly nearly broke me. The thought of possibly leaving Mother alone after his death has caused me copious amounts of guilt, but the inevitable conclusion that I came to was that it was unavoidable. After the way The Dark Lord misused Kreacher, I had to act; had no other choice.

“Kreacher?”

“My Mistress…” He pauses, his head bowed. “My Mistress passed away, Master. Many long years ago.”

My stomach lurches as the feeling in the back of my mind spreads through me. It tingles down my limbs, prickling my skin with what feels strongly like fear.

“Kreacher–” I have to pause to clear my throat. “Kreacher, what year is it? How long has Mother been…”

“Kreacher is sorry, Master, he truly is.” Leaning heavily on the cane, Kreacher bows again, all of his earlier pride evaporated. “Kreacher should have stayed and helped Master leave the cave. Kreacher has failed his Master.”

Nausea churns my stomach and causes my head to spin. My hands clench on the edge of the bed as I attempt to keep my balance.

“Kreacher. _What is the year_?”

“Two thousand, Master. Mistress died fifteen years ago. Kreacher is sorry, Master.”

I swallow rapidly, trying to keep myself from retching. _Fifteen years_. My mother has been dead for almost longer than I have been alive. The thought pulls me up. No, that cannot be true, if what Kreacher has told me is to be believed. I do some quick mental calculation and come up with a number.

“I am… Thirty-nine years old?”

It seems an odd thing to focus on, but it is less painful than actually acknowledging my mother’s death. My head spins again, forcing me to close my eyes.

“By the calendar, yes, you are, but–”

“Shut-up.”

It is Harry speaking. I can hear his mouth snap shut the second I speak, though. Taking several deep breaths, I let them out slowly.

“Get out.”

“Regulus?”

“Get. Out.” I try to keep my voice level, despite the emotions attempting to overwhelm me. “Get out of this room. Leave me alone.”

With my eyes still closed, all I can do is listen to see whether either of them has obeyed my command.

“Alright. Come on, Kreacher.”

I stay sitting on the edge of the bed, listening to their footsteps – and the clunking of Kreacher’s cane – as they exit the room. Still taking deep breaths, I sit as motionless as possible.

_Mother is dead._

_I have been dead for twenty-one years._

My stomach lurches again. The fear flowing through me finally begins to overcome me as my breath shudders through me. Hot tears spring behind my eyelids before I throw myself back down onto the bed. I do not pass out this time, but cry myself to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

How long has it been that I have just laid here, staring at the ceiling? I truly cannot say. I never regained my sense of time once I awoke and have not had the energy to focus on average, everyday things. It could have been only days, or it could have been years. Every day just seems to blend into the next. I awake, I eat, I stare hopelessly up at the ceiling, then I go back to sleep.

There are cracks running across the ceiling. Having stared at them for so long, I am able to distinguish between the ones that are through the plaster, and the ones that are merely cracks in the paint. My eyes trace along one of the longer ones, following it to its by-now far-too-familiar ending. This was a game I used to play as a child, when I could hear my parents fighting. It gives me the same sense of comfort now as it did back then.

My hands clench by my sides as the thought of my family sends another jolt of loss through me. My breath shudders. These past… well, however many days it has been since my conversation with Kreacher, have been tough. I have never truly felt a loss like this before in my life. I have to assume that the loss of my father had not yet fully sunk in, as I did not experience this same sensation when he passed away. The knowledge that both my mother and father are gone feels as though it has opened a great, gaping hole in the middle of my chest. It is difficult to breathe around it sometimes, the pain it causes being acute. Taking a deep breath, I begin to trace another crack with my eyes.

“…you may have to face the fact that he might not recover completely, Harry.”

With a groan, I roll onto my side, facing the wall. This is just what I need right now: to be faced with yet another session of Harry fucking Potter and his silent acceptance of me. I devoutly wish that the bastard would just leave me alone.

“He’s _awake_ , though, Katie. And he’s Sirius’ brother, I can’t just give up on him.”

The mention of my brother sends another sensation through me, although I cannot quite put a name to it. I am fairly certain that it isn’t hatred, but that is as far as I am willing to speculate. I freeze as their footsteps stop outside my door, and the door slides open quietly.

“Regulus?”

Clenching my jaw, I stay as still as I possibly can. Perhaps if I ignore them, they will assume that I am asleep and just leave? Unfortunately, I have no such luck. They step inside and slide the door closed, continuing their conversation in whispered voices.

“I think you’re putting too much focus on the fact that he is Sirius’ brother, Harry. The two of them were apparently nothing alike, so why you would want to try to form a relationship with him is… confusing, at least.”

Harry sighs before responding. “Sirius… Look, I’m not after another father-figure, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

I barely hold back a snort of derision at the thought of _my_ brother being anyone’s father-figure. Sirius is rough, and rebellious, and cares nothing for the people who he should care for; for blood. He abandoned our family and his duties as the first-born son before he had even reached adulthood. I am the dutiful son, I am the one who was willing to follow our parents’ wishes; _I_ am the one who our parents were proud to call son.

“But think of who he is, Harry; of who that family was. The Black family weren’t all like Sirius. All you really have to do is look at who they are related to in order to see that.”

“You mean Teddy? And Tonks? And Andy?”

“No, I mean the Malfoys, and the Crabbes, and the Rosiers, and all those other families who joined with You Know Who during the wars.”

“You can’t judge someone by who their family are, you know that.” There is now a heat to Harry’s voice that tells me that this Katie has crossed some kind of line. “And his name was _Voldemort_.”

A very feminine huff of breath reaches my ears. She sounds frustrated and I almost wish that I had turned onto my other side, so I could watch them. As it is, I am stuck just listening.

“Healer Bell!”

The shout from the hallway is loud enough that I know that had I truly been asleep, it would have woken me. A muffled curse gives away the fact that the woman in the room with Harry is actually ‘Healer Bell’. The door slides open in the next second and I hear a quick, muttered conversation.

“Harry, I’m sorry, but I have to run. Caradoc’s tried to knock another intern out.” She sounds weary, like this is a regular occurrence. “Please, just think through what I’ve said. No one wants to see you hurt and, if Regulus doesn’t pull through this, then I believe that that is exactly what is going to happen.”

I do not hear Harry’s response, but he must have given one, as she thanks him before closing the door again. I hear the sound of his shoes shuffling from the general direction of the chair he has so often occupied.

“Regulus?”

I remain still, determined to not be dragged into yet another conversation with him again. I still have so much to work out for myself that I simply cannot deal with anyone else’s guilt. I also firmly believe that if I have to listen to Harry apologise one more time, I may have to attempt to strangle him.

“I wish he was here.”

Another shuffle of Harry’s shoes tells me that he has stood up and is heading for the door. I want to roll over and demand to be told just what he meant by the words – and who – but do not dare. Straining my ears, I listen for anything else he might say, but the door opens and closes quietly, leaving me alone to puzzle over their meaning.


	7. Chapter 7

_I wish he was here_.

The words have been rolling around my mind ever since Harry left me yesterday. They have consumed my waking hours so much that I recall everything I have done today. I have not allowed myself to drift off into my world of sorrow as I have been doing so often recently. It is a strange sensation. Not even the cracks in the ceiling have been able to distract me from asking just who it was Harry was speaking of.

_Sirius. It must be._

It makes the most amount of sense. Harry and Healer Bell had been speaking of Sirius, then Harry had wished that ‘he’ was here. Sirius; it _has_ to be Sirius. I let out a sigh as I lie back against my pillow.

I promised myself when I was fourteen years old that I would never care about my brother again. Like most siblings, we fought all through our childhood. Unlike most siblings, we never stopped. Sirius’ values were so different from mine; from the values we were brought up with. Making friends with James Potter and his lot only made him worse. He came home from school during that first year spouting all kinds of what my parents termed ‘nonsense’ at best and ‘blood-traitorous treachery’ at worst. Sirius rebelled against our parents every chance he got and lumped me in with them in the process. Images and memories from my childhood flash before my eyes when I close them.

Sirius proudly displaying his gold and red Gryffindor colours on his bedroom walls. My father lecturing us both on pure-blood politics as we sat at the dining room table. Sirius loudly declaring that he would never be like our parents, no matter how badly they beat him. My mother burning Sirius off the Black family tree when she found out that he had left home to live with James Potter.

_James Potter_.

This one man is the sole reason I know I cannot trust Harry. How could I possibly bring myself to place my trust in the son of the man who took my brother away from me? Who poisoned Sirius’ mind even further against me and our family? James Potter worked hard to make sure that Sirius never wanted to go back home. He guaranteed that I never got the chance to speak to Sirius about what was happening between him and our parents. That is one thing I can never forgive him for.

“Mr. Black?”

I jump, shock running through me. My hand once again automatically goes to my side, reaching for the wand that is no longer there.

“Sorry, I should have made more noise.” Healer Bell stands in the doorway to my room, a clipboard held in her hand. “How are you feeling today?”

I take deep breaths as my heart thuds against my ribcage. It is still a strange sensation, having random people walk into what I have come to think of as ‘my’ room. I am used to solitude and to privacy, having lived with my elderly parents for my entire life. Clearing my throat, I sit up straighter.

“I am fine.”

She smiles at me politely before raising the clipboard. “That’s good to hear. Do you mind if I take some stats from you?”

I do mind, as I would much rather be sitting here in privacy with my thoughts. I shake my head, however, figuring that she would just come back to badger me later if I refuse now.

“Excellent. I won’t take long, I swear.”

She is true to her word. After lying the bed down, she waves her wand, casting what I have come to know of as a Diagnostic Charm. It is capable of giving off information about a person’s physical wellbeing in the matter of a few seconds. I watch carefully as the numbers flash above me.

“Well, it seems that your feeling is correct,” Healer Bell announces after a quick review of my stats. “For someone who was literally brought back from the dead, you are remarkably well. There will be lasting effects, as I am sure you are aware. Some of the others we pulled from the lake have begun physical therapy, and some have begun psychological therapy. I’ll have someone come in and do an assessment on you in the next few days, just to see where you are with your physical and mental fitness.”

She barely pauses for breath. All I can really do is nod along with her. When it seems as though she is winding down, I raise a hand to catch her attention. She frowns.

“Yes?”

“Would it be possible for you to get Harry Potter in here, please?” I ask in the politest tone I can manage. “I believe it is time we had a serious discussion.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's late again, sorry! I'm dealing with some health issues at the moment, so this might keep happening, I'm not really sure. I will try to keep it to within two days of when I usually post, though! :)

I have no real idea what possessed me to request to see Harry Potter. The idea sprang into my mind and I opened my mouth before I could think my actions through. I didn’t even pause to consider that he might not be on the hospital grounds. Well, there is really nothing to be done about it now, as Healer Bell has gone off to find Harry and bring him to me. My eyes slide closed as I lie back against my pillow again, trying to work through just what I want to say.

It will be nice to know what has happened to Sirius, I guess. He is my brother, after all, so I should technically know where he is, or where he ended up. The rest of the family as well, for that matter. I vaguely recall Healer Bell mentioning the Malfoys, but knowing where the rest of my extended family are – and whether they have survived the war – is something I should be asking about.

The war. I find it difficult to believe that war has been raging in Britain for the past… twenty-one years, was it that Harry told me I had been missing for? I need to know exactly what happened after I ‘died’. My shoulders flex as a shiver runs through me. The very idea of having been dead for the past twenty-one years is disturbing, to say the least.

Dead. The Inferi. I really _should_ ask about the Inferi and the spell that brought me back. I don’t particularly want to, but this is something that I simply must know. If I am to ascertain whether I will be suffering any long-term aftereffects, I need to know just exactly what it is I have been hit with. Taking a deep breath, I push the thoughts of my own death away and try to think of something – anything – else.

Grimmauld Place. I grew up in the family home and would like to know what has happened to it. I cannot picture Sirius going back to live there after our parents passed on. Harry did say something about it being ‘fixed up’, but exactly what that means, I have no idea. And, since my parents are both dead, it must have passed to Sirius. Footsteps outside my room pull me out of my thoughts.

“Regulus?”

Harry taps softly on the door as he pushes it open. Light floods the room for a few seconds. Harry closes the door over quickly, but not before my eyes begin to water. I am still much more used to the dark of my room than the light of the outside world. Scrubbing my hand over my eyes, I frown.

“Sorry. Should have closed it sooner.”

I shake my head. “It’s fine.”

_What_ a great start. Shifting on the bed, I straighten up and glance over to where Harry stands by the door. Dressed in jeans and a flannelette shirt, he looks… harmless. Average. Nervous. Unable to help it, I frown again.

“You, er, wanted to see me?”

He shoves his hands in his pockets and cocks his head to the side. Suspicion races through me. There is no way that the son of James Potter could be as innocent as he is trying to appear.

“Yes, I did. I do.” Clearing my throat, I wave a hand in the general direction of the chair he usually takes. “Please, sit.”

“Kreacher’s been asking about you,” Harry states as he sits down. “He’s been wondering whether he can come and visit sometime?”

The fact that Harry seems to be on a first-name basis with _my_ house-elf sends annoyance through me. My eyes narrow.

“How do you know Kreacher so well? Are you living in my house?”

Well, that was not the way I wished this conversation to being. It is done, however. Harry sits and blinks at me for a few seconds before responding.

“Well, er… That’s a little hard to explain.”

“I have all day.”

Harry blinks again. “Right. Well.” Shifting in the chair, it is clear that I have made him uncomfortable. “Er, the house – Grimmauld Place – it was willed to me. When I was fifteen years old.”

“Willed to you?”

“Yes.”

My mind seems to have short-circuited. I swallow and shake my head, trying to make sense of the conclusion I have come to.

“No, that is impossible. For the house to have been willed to _you_ , all the Black family heirs had to have been dead.”

There is a pause of only a few seconds, but it feels longer; hours longer. Harry folds his hands in front of him and casts his gaze to the floor.

“I’m sorry, Regulus. I didn’t want you to have to find out about Sirius like this.”

Oh. _Oh_. My eyes blur as I stare into the middle ground between us. I am unsure whether the lack of emotion I am feeling is due to not caring what happened to my brother, or simply because I am completely drained.

Dead. Sirius is dead.

It is a strange concept. I am the last of my line. I am the last of my family.

“What – no.” I shake my head, stopping the question before I have even asked it. “Am I the very last one surviving? The last Black?”

Harry nods, still keeping his gaze on the floor. “You are the last Black male alive. We all believed you properly dead and the house would have gone to Draco Malfoy if Sirius hadn’t willed it to me.”

“A Malfoy? How?”

“He’s Narcissa’s son with Lucius. He’s my age. Narcissa’s sister Andromeda, she had a daughter who had a son with one of my father’s friends, Remus. Bellatrix didn’t have kids, thankfully. So, you, Draco, and Teddy – Andy’s grandson – are the last of that line. But you are the only one with the Black name.”

A small voice in the back of my mind screams that I should be objecting to the way he has spoken about Bellatrix, but I find myself mute. Sirius is dead. My cousins have married and two of them have children. One of them even has a grandson. I am truly the last of my line.

I cannot tell how long has passed since Harry stopped speaking. When he stands, it startles me out of my thoughts.

“I’ll just leave you in peace.” His voice is soft and full of a sorrow that I cannot understand. “I really am sorry you had to find out this way.”

Frowning at his back, I try to form a response that is something beyond gibberish. The door opens and the room is flooded with light again.

Wait,” I manage to gasp just before Harry closes the door again. “Kreacher. Tell him it is fine if he visits. I would like to see him very much.”

I catch Harry’s nod just as the door closes behind him. Leaning back against my pillow again, I begin to try to sort through the information he has given me. It is hours before I realise that I forgot to ask him about the spell that brought me back, or the war.


	9. Chapter 9

It takes a mere day for Harry to fulfil his promise to allow Kreacher to visit me. Lying in my bed, once again staring at the ceiling as my thoughts go around in circles, it is a shock to hear his voice.

“Kreacher is so relieved that Master Regulus has returned.”

Warmth pools in my stomach as I watch Kreacher moving to sit in the house-elf-sized chair that the hospital has provided for him. He has aged so much since I last saw him that it is still a bit shocking. With his bald head and the cane he now carries, I know I would not have been able to recognise him as the same elf that served us when I was a child at first glance. I wait until he is settled to speak, knowing exactly how to set him at ease.

“Are you injured, Kreacher? Is that why you carry that cane now? Are you being treated well?”

The questions are aimed well. Kreacher has always been fuelled by the knowledge that he is one of the best-treated house-elves in the country. Treat him well and he will be loyal for life; his unending loyalty to me is proof. Kreacher sits up straighter, puffing up with pride. He meets my eyes with no hesitation.

“Master Harry is a kind master. He allowed Kreacher to fight in Master Regulus’ name during the final battle of the war. Kreacher fought proudly, Master Regulus, to avenge the unfair death of his master.”

Shifting in the bed, I begin to piece together the tiny bits of information I have been given by speaking to various people. I still do not have a real timeline of what has happened in the world since my disappearance, but I am on my way, and I know Kreacher will be more than willing to give me answers.

“This final battle, Kreacher. It was fought against The Dark Lord and his followers, yes?”

“Indeed, Master Regulus. At Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Many, many people died, on both sides, but Kreacher led the house-elves into battle. We _won_ , Master, in your name.”

A strange sense of relief shoots through my stomach at his words. “The Dark Lord truly is dead.”

“Yes, Master. Two years ago, the battle was fought.”

“Two–? _Two years_ ago, Kreacher?” I sit and blink at him for a few seconds. “It cannot be possible that war has been fought in Britain for that long. I d–” I cut myself off before saying the word ‘died’. It still feels so wrong. “The cave was in nineteen seventy-nine, Kreacher. Our world, the wizarding community in Britain, it cannot have sustained a war for that long. Not only do we not have the resources, but we would have been seen; been discovered. The Muggles would have noticed. Even they are not that stupid.”

“No, Master, the wars did not span the time between Master’s disappearance and now. Master Harry defeated The Dark Lord twice. Once when he was a baby and then again two years ago.”

_Once when he was a baby…_

Harry’s words to me from a few weeks – weeks? Months? I have no idea – ago come back to me. _James Potter died when Harry was a baby._ It seems so obvious that I already know this, now that I think of it. I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the idea that maybe my mind is not as fast as I am used to.

“Kreacher, when did Harry defeat The Dark Lord the first time?”

Kreacher blinks up at me, a small crease forming between his eyes. “In nineteen eighty-one, Master.”

Only two years after the cave. For two years, war raged unchecked through the United Kingdom. For _two fucking years_ after the sacrifice I made, no one could stop him. It is unbelievable.

“The Horcruxes, Kreacher. What happened to them?”

A look of pride crosses Kreacher’s face as he draws himself up again. “Master Harry and his friends killed them, Master. Once the Horcruxes had been defeated, The Dark Lord could not stand.” His hand goes to a chain around his neck, fiddling with whatever is on the end of it. “The locket, Master. Kreacher helped Master Harry to destroy the locket.”

I nod along, gifting Kreacher a smile when he gives me a strange look. It is now clear that if Harry knew about the locket Horcrux and managed to destroy it, he must have been able to destroy all of them. Even back when I first worked out that The Dark Lord had created Horcruxes in his attempt at immortality, I did not know how many there were. I must assume that there was more than just the one I knew about, though. When Kreacher continues to look at me strangely, I give myself a mental shake.

“Thank you, Kreacher.” I try to put as much sincerity into the words as I can. “You carried out my final instructions perfectly.”

Kreacher draws himself up to his full height, his chest puffed out proudly. “It was nothing, Master. Kreacher lives to serve the Noble House of Black.”

He bows as deeply as is possible while seated in the chair, causing me to have to hold back a smile. The conversation from there drifts away from the war, giving me time to try to sort through what he has told me. I pepper him with questions about my cousins – where they are, who married whom, who has produced heirs – and he, equally, asks questions of me. They are not difficult questions to answer, but some are a little more probing than I know he would have had the courage to ask me before… Well, before my disappearance. I note the changes in his personality carefully, filing them away for later study. By the time lunch rolls around, my voice is a little hoarse from speaking as much as I have been.

“Master Regulus!” Kreacher hops out of the chair, his cane thumping on the floor as he makes his way over to where the attendant has placed my regular lunch of stew, tea, and pudding. “This will not do. Master will not continue to eat this, this… _gruel_.”

I am unable to help the smile that crosses my face at the disgust Kreacher is showing. “It is fine, Kreacher. I have little choice in the matter.”

“Kreacher will cook Master’s meals. Kreacher will serve his Master the way he is supposed to. Master Regulus deserves only the best.”

Warmth begins to pool in my stomach as images of Kreacher’s cooking float through my mind. Beef wellington, bubble and squeak, and even his shepherd’s pie race through my mind’s eye, causing my mouth to water. The images cause a sharp sense of loss to hit me right in the stomach, and I bite down on my bottom lip to prevent myself from showing how Kreacher’s offer as affected me.

“That is a very generous offer, Kreacher,” I begin before Kreacher steps up to the bed, his enormous eyes wide.

“Kreacher will look after Master Regulus, sir. There is no need to worry.”

With that, he pats my hand and returns to his chair. I take a couple of seconds to attempt to compose myself as a sense of longing to be back home with my parents hits me, piling in on top of the loss I am already feeling. Clearing my throat, I try to smile.

“Thank you, Kreacher.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as clarification: I do not follow The Cursed Child. Bellatrix never had a child. Ever. :)

Sorting out a timeline of events is proving to be one of the more frustrating things I have attempted. There are only a few things that I know happened for certain, as they have not only been repeated by numerous people, but have also been confirmed by Kreacher.

Firstly, it took Kreacher – and Harry, technically – nineteen years to destroy the first Horcrux. Kreacher brought me to the cave that was its resting place in nineteen seventy-nine. It was destroyed by someone named Ron in nineteen ninety-eight. Nineteen years! I still do not know how it could have possibly taken that long to destroy the cursed thing. I must make note to ask Kreacher.

Secondly, my mother died in nineteen eighty-five. This is a little more difficult to come to terms with. My disappearance left my mother all alone in the world until her death. Kreacher, then, was also left alone after that, to wander Grimmauld Place on his own. I roll my shoulders as guilt assails me. I abandoned my mother. She died knowing that her only loyal son had chosen to abandon her. How does one come to terms with the fact that your actions contributed to your mother’s early death? I know the answer must be that you do not come to terms with that; _I_ will not come to terms with that.

Third, and perhaps the part that I feel the most ambiguous about: Sirius is dead. My big brother is dead. By my cousin Bellatrix’s hand, apparently. I should be feeling something other than numb when I think of Sirius. Anger, confusion, hurt; _something_. But, no. When it comes to Sirius, it is like I am dead inside.

On a related note: many of my own contemporaries are dead. Barty Crouch, Jr. was killed within the past ten years. Severus Snape is apparently also dead, as are Sirius’ little band of friends from school. Some members of my extended family were killed before my disappearance, and there have been many more since then. The Crabbe family, the Rosier family, and the Macmillan family were all close to us growing up, but they have suffered many losses. Bellatrix is the one that hurts the most, though. We grew up together. Or, rather, she tolerated Sirius and I when we were children. It is difficult to imagine that she and her husband are both dead, especially without an heir to continue the Lestrange name.

An heir… I am the last of my line. The very last Black in existence. My eyes close as something very akin to fear rolls through my stomach. I have a heavy burden on my shoulders if I am to continue my line. I do not know at this stage if it is even possible for me anymore. Masturbation has been low on my list of priorities since I awoke. Although…

I throw the sheets off myself and sit staring down into my lap. The ugly hospital pyjamas do not do me any favours, but that is not what I am focussed on. What if being in that water for so long has damaged me in some way? The Healers have managed to restore or salvage my internal organs, that much is evident from the very fact that I am alive. Their priority would not have been my ability to reproduce, however. Beyond urination, my penis has been dormant, so to speak. What if I am broken? What if I am never able to function as a normal man ever again? What if–

“Ah, Mr. Black. It’s good to see you awake.”

I yank the sheets back up over myself as the door to my room opens. My heart thuds against my ribcage, the only indication that I have been doing something even slightly out of the ordinary.

“Healer Bell,” I grind out.

The look she gives me is a little strange, but I just stare right back at her. It is not like she caught me doing anything unusual, after all. The only thing she would have seen would be me sitting on my bed. At least, that is what I tell myself when she offers me a small smile.

“I have the details of your session with the therapist here.”

I blink. “‘Therapist’?”

“Yes.” She glances down at the clipboard in her hands. “Everyone who we pulled out of the water will have mandatory therapy sessions. Both physical as well as mental. I spoke to you about this a few days ago?”

_Physical therapy_. With where my mind has been in the past few minutes, all kinds of images flash before my eyes. A Healer who specialises in restoring the function of my penis is at the forefront of my mind. It takes another couple of seconds before the word _prostitute_ occurs to me.

“Mr. Black?”

With my mind still fixated on my current physical worries, it takes me a lot longer than usual to register just what she is telling me. I lower my head to stare into my lap again as I feel a blush forming on my cheeks.

“You wish me to see a physical therapist to make sure my legs function properly?”

“Your legs and any other body parts that are supposed to move, really. These sessions are designed to give us the knowledge of your body required for us to help you as much as possible. We will assess any damage done by not only the water, but also by the magic that held you all suspended.” She taps something on the clipboard and makes a small surprised sound. “Apparently, they are also going to try to estimate a physical age for you, as well. The degrees to which people who were in the cave have aged differs by their sex, original age, and how long they were in the water for. The therapist will be able to give you a rough estimate on how much you have aged in the time you were in the water.”

I swallow as my stomach flutters with nerves. Clenching my hands, I nod slowly.

“Alright. Thank you.”

“Well, if you don’t have any questions for me, I will leave you to it, then?”

I continue to nod, hoping that she will take the hint. I have once again been thrown by an overload of information. I resist the urge to curl up beneath the sheets, however. Now that I have broken myself of the habit of staring up at the ceiling, I am determined to not regress.

“Okay. Kreacher will be in with your lunch soon.”

“Thank you.”


	11. Chapter 11

_Physical therapy_ is not what I would call what I have been put through this morning. I have been poked, prodded, contorted into strange positions, and had my joints and muscles tested in ways I did not know was even possible. My eyes slide shut as I lean back against the wall of my room, sweat beading on my forehead.

“Perhaps we should take a break.”

The Healer’s voice is pitched low. With my lips pressed together so as not to allow myself to insult the man, I nod.

“Very well. I shall return in an hour.”

I barely bite back a groan. I had been assuming that my ability to walk myself to the bathroom and to feed myself indicated that I was in decent physical condition. I, apparently, could not have been more wrong.

All the conditioning I had gained through my years of Quidditch in school has been sapped from me during my stay in the water. The effort it takes to make my way into the bathroom attached to my room – holding onto a railing for support if needed – is nothing when compared to actually walking any distance beyond that. My hips are in functioning order, but my knees occasionally refuse to bend in the correct way, locking into position. My lung capacity has been reduced, although whether that was due to the water that drowned me or the magic that sustained me, no one yet knows. My hand-eye coordination has always been excellent; I was Slytherin House’s Seeker, after all. Everything else, however…

A large sigh escapes me as I push off the wall. I manage to not stagger, but only just. The ache in my legs is unbelievable. It’s almost as though I have never used them before. My shoulders are little better. Lying gingerly down on top of the covers, my eyes slide closed again.

“Rough day?”

I’m too tired to be surprised by Harry’s arrival at my door. I keep my eyes closed, not bothering to glance over to where I know he must have slipped in and seated himself.

“I have seen the therapist.” My voice is a little too breathless for my taste, but there is nothing I can do about it. “It was… Challenging.”

Harry snorts out a small laugh. “Think yourself lucky you missed out on the actual healing process after they hauled you out of the water. Some of the tests they run make you wish you really had died.”

There is something strange to his tone that causes me to crack an eye open at him. Sitting in his usual chair, he has placed his elbows on his knees. His head hangs so that he appears to be staring at his shoes. Despite the pose, though, there is a slight smile on his lips.

“How do you know?”

I could not have prevented myself from asking even if I had wanted to. Harry’s smile turns wry in an instant.

“I duelled Voldemort himself during the final battle. Killed him, too, with his own rebounding spell. They had to make sure that I hadn’t been possessed or cursed.” I stay silent, sure that there is more to what he wants to say. When he continues, it’s in a quiet tone overlaid with a bitterness that I have not yet heard from him. “They couldn’t have their _Saviour_ dropping dead at the Minister’s feet, could they?”

I can hear the capitals and the emphasis he places on the word in his tone. When he shifts and offers me another smile, I realise that I am now just openly staring at him. Curiosity rushes through me. I hesitate only a few seconds before I cannot hold the question in any longer.

“What happened? They told me that he had been defeated, but I have no details. Not even Kreacher wants to speak of it.”

Placing my hands on the bed, I wince a little as I push myself into a sitting position. Harry reaches his hand out towards me, a concerned frown on his face. I do not prevent him from touching me this time, as I have a feeling that exerting myself in this condition could very well lead to injury. His hand on the centre of my back is overly warm, bordering on hot. My eyes close at the odd sensation.

“Sorry.” Harry’s hand leaves me the second I am seated properly against the bedhead. “They keep telling me not to touch anyone who has been in the water. They have to keep you cooler rather than at room temperature, because you’re not used to the heat yet.”

Instead of reacting to this new piece of information Harry has let slip, I focus on a question that has been nagging at me for a while now. “Why do you care?”

Harry freezes. “What?”

“Why do you care? About me?” My eyebrows draw down as he stares at me in what appears to be shock. “I disappeared before you were born. Hell, it was even before your parents were considering having a child. Why… _how_ can you care so much about someone who has nothing to do with you?”

The look of shock on Harry’s face fades away to a deep sorrow when he sinks down onto the chair again. His eyes glaze over as he stares at a spot on the floor, giving me the impression that whatever he is seeing isn’t on the floor of the hospital.

“I…” He pauses and shakes his head, clearing the sadness from his expression and covering it quite well. “Which do you want me to answer? Voldemort, or why I care about what happens to you?”

Oh. Damn. My curiosity over both questions is about the same. Harry being able to defeat Voldemort as well as his Horcruxes is one of the biggest things to happen to the wizarding world in decades. But his fascination with me in particular is equally something that I need an answer for. Pressing my lips together, I let out a sigh through my nose.

“Sirius used to do that.”

My head whips towards him so quickly that my neck muscles ache. I do not get to respond, however.

“Tell you what. I’ll tell you about Voldemort now. The other question…” He pauses, once again staring at something that I cannot see. “It needs more explanation than I can give now before the therapist comes back. I’ll have Kreacher bring some extra food tomorrow when he brings your lunch. We’ll have time then.”

I frown as disappointment rushes through me. Harry makes it sound as though his explanation for why he is focussed so intently on me will be much more interesting than how he defeated Voldemort.

Sadly, it turns out that I am right. While the hunt for the Horcruxes and the explanation of how they discovered each of them is fascinating, and gives me a lot to think about when Harry leaves, I am now much more interested in what else he has to tell me. By the time the therapist returns, my curiosity over Voldemort has been satisfied. My curiosity over Harry himself is growing by the second, however.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to say a quick thanks to everyone who keeps coming back to read each week! :)
> 
> I've skipped over the actual therapy itself because it's dead boring to read about, pretty much. Same with the explanation of how Voldy was defeated, because everyone who knows the canon knows that story.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter turned out mega long, so I've split it into two. The next half will be up as chapter 13 next week! :)

Everything aches. From the tips of my hair to the bottoms of my feet, I believe there is not one tiny little piece of me that is not in pain.

“Excellent, Mr. Black. You have done much better than what was expected of you.”

I swear, if I had my wand, I would hex the cheerful smile off the therapist’s face. It has only been two days of therapy sessions and I am already sick of the constant jolliness he shows. Instead, I content myself with a tight smile. Mother instilled correct manners in me, even if I occasionally would like to throw them out the window. Sitting gingerly on the very edge of the bed, I let out a deep sigh. My eyes close automatically.

“Now, for the part that I believe you have been waiting for the entire morning.”

That grabs my attention immediately. My eyes snap open and my hands clench in the sheets beneath me.

“You have an estimate for my true age?”

The therapist – a middle-aged man who I was introduced to properly, but whose name I immediately forgot, much to my embarrassment – smiles at me. It is an indulgent smile, almost fatherly.

“Are you absolutely certain you want to know?”

I have thought about this quite a bit since Healer Bell first mentioned it. While, on the calendar, I am thirty-nine years of age, I do not look it. However, I also do not _feel_ like the same impulsive eighteen-year-old who headed into that cave without a second thought. I nod slowly.

“Yes, I am certain. I want to know how old you believe I actually am.”

His smile widens. “In that case…” He taps a few things on the clipboard he carries with him each time I see him. “Taking everything into account, the age we believe you are physically is… Twenty-one.”

A breath that has been making my chest ache rushes out of me. Twenty-one. That is… Surprising. I had been dreading discovering that my time spent in the water had had a degenerating effect, despite appearances. Twenty-one is a brilliant result, I believe.

“That…” Nodding slowly, I let out another deep sigh. “Thank you.”

“You are very welcome, Mr. Black. I shall leave you to it, then. I think I hear your lunch arriving.”

Sure enough, the second the man exits the room, Kreacher steps in. With a deep bow, he begins setting up the lunch table.

_Twenty-one_. Breathing slowly and deeply, I examine the idea in my mind. I have missed three years physically, but that is nothing compared to the years I have missed in reality. It definitely could have been worse, I figure, just as the door opens again and Harry steps inside.

“Hullo.”

He is standing inside the slightly ajar door, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. With his hair standing on end, and the almost innocent look on his face, he appears much younger than I know he is. Unable to help it, I am immediately suspicious. I know who he is and who his parents were, so there could be no way that he is as harmless as he appears.

I have had this sensation before about him. It is almost like I want to like him, and want to trust him, but my suspicions will not allow me to. I cannot tell whether this is my problem, or if the sensation is caused by him, however.

“Good morning,” I respond, with a slight nod.

Harry runs a hand through his hair and shifts his weight, looking ever more awkward. “I, er, saw Alistair out there,” he offers after a few seconds. “The therapist?”

I mentally note the name down, determined that, this time, I will not forget it so easily. “Yes, he has left me with some news.”

Interest springs into Harry’s eyes at this, although he makes no move into the room. Standing in the doorway, rocking on the balls of his feet, it seems that he does not know how to proceed. Not that I blame him. The situation we find ourselves in is highly unusual, especially when you take the reason for his visit into account. When he does not make any verbal response, I wave my hand towards the chair Kreacher has set up for him.

“Would you like to sit?”

The grin this produces transforms Harry’s face. He is… average-looking at best, I would judge. I believe I may be biased, however, as all I can seem to see is his resemblance to his father. The grin, however, erases the dark circles beneath his eyes, and the almost permanent worried frown on his brow. He looks younger; looks his age.

“This looks fantastic, Kreacher, thanks.”

As Harry seats himself, I glance at the table Kreacher has set up. Lunch today appears to consist of salads and mixed cold meats. I wince as I stand from the bed to make my way to the other chair.

“Are you alright?”

I wait until I am seated across from Harry to respond. “These therapy sessions are tough. I did not realise just how out-of-shape I was until I was required to begin moving.”

Harry hums. “The inactivity would have been bad enough, but being suspended in water for so long is what made it worse, apparently.” When I cock my head to the side in silent enquiry, he continues. “Katie – Healer Bell – we went to school together. She’s kept me updated on the way things are going here generally. Nothing explicit about anyone in particular, just the stuff that someone who worked in the ward would know.”

I nod as I serve myself from the platters Kreacher has laid out. “Is that why you seem so fascinated with me specifically? Because we have a half-connection through my brother and having access to me is a way to keep in the loop?”

I keep my tone cautiously neutral, but Harry still makes a strange sound that causes me to look up. I cannot quite place the look in his eyes, but it seems close to offence.

“I don’t need to use _you_ to get information about this case.”

There is derision and heat in his tone, telling me that, yes, I have insulted him. The fact that he is quick to anger is not surprising. His father was the same. I do not apologise. Returning my attention to the food, I nod slowly.

“What, then? What could possibly be so interesting to you about someone you have never met before? I would venture a guess that Sirius never mentioned me.”

“Actually, he called you an idiot for joining the Death Eaters.”

My head snaps up just in time to see Harry’s gaze resting on my left forearm. The Mark has faded and scarred over, all the magic drained from it with Voldemort’s defeat, I would assume. Harry cannot see it now, however, not with my hospital pyjamas covering it. My left hand clenches around the knife.

“He was always such a _nice_ brother.” I try not to spit the word, but am not sure I manage it. “We got along so very well.”

A soft sigh from across the table grabs my attention, but I refuse to look at Harry. Not even the sound of his cutlery being placed on his plate makes me raise my head.

“I didn’t come here to argue about Sirius.” When I make no reaction, he sighs again. “Look, he and my father were really close, I know that. Close enough that Sirius was named my Godfather. James and Lily trusted him enough to want him to look after me if anything ever happened to them.”

Cutting into one of the cherry tomatoes on my plate, I try not to sneer. “And how did that work out for you?”

Harry’s cutlery crashes down onto the plate this time. I manage not to jump and, as casually as possible, place the half of the tomato into my mouth. The expected explosion doesn’t occur, however. Unable to resist, I glance up. Harry’s eyes blaze a bright green as they bore into me. The raw power I can see held behind them sends a shiver down my spine.

“Sirius spent twelve years in Azkaban for what Peter Pettigrew did. He then spent three years on the run because the Ministry were blind fools who couldn’t manage to work a case properly to save themselves. Be very careful about what you say about him in front of me because you might not have gotten along with him, but _I did_.”

Finally, I can see the intensity that tells me that this child could have the required power to defeat Voldemort. All the awkwardness has melted from him, to be replaced by a rigidity that can only come from being a soldier. Many of my peers had the same intensity, the same defensive posture, the same hardened look to their eyes. Having had some questions answered that I had not even thought to ask aloud, I incline my head slightly.

“Fair enough. The subject of my family is off the table for the time being.”

It takes a little longer for Harry to relax again. Even when he sits back against his chair again, though, I can still see the tension in his shoulders. It seems that I have gotten to him much faster and easier than I had expected. I stay silent until he is ready to speak again.


	13. Chapter 13

It takes longer than I expected for Harry to speak again. I have nearly finished my lunch when he clears his throat and places his cutlery down, much gentler than he did earlier.

“People keep telling me that I lose my temper too easily. And, I know that they’re right.” He is not looking at me, but I still make no response, figuring he is not finished. “Not this time, though.”

Something strange clenches in my chest. It is a remembered sensation, something from my childhood. When Harry raises his head, I recognise the feeling: a combination of fear and nerves. It is the same sensation that clutched my chest whenever my parents fought with Sirius. Pressing the tips of my fingers to the pads of my thumbs, I put some pressure there. The old gesture brings back a sense of security also from my childhood, one that I know to be false. Taking a slow breath, I hold it for a few seconds.

“What do you mean?”

“You provoked me.” When my only response is a raise of an eyebrow, Harry continues. “Sirius did it to Snape. I saw him. He _enjoyed_ it. Of course, Snape did it right back. Draco – Lucius and Narcissa’s son – he does it as well. To me, and to certain of my friends.” Harry shrugs. “Maybe it’s a Black family thing. Maybe you are all like that. I have no idea.”

I do not know how to react to this. Harry is implying that I enjoy the feeling of provoking him to anger. He is also implying that it could be a family trait. My shoulders roll as an uncomfortable sensation ripples across them.

“I won’t put up with it.”

That grabs my attention completely. My shoulders and chest tighten as I meet his eyes.

“You won’t put up with it,” I repeat slowly. The trepidation I have been feeling increases when his only response is to take his cutlery up and begin to eat again.

“No, I won’t,” he responds after a couple of mouthfuls. “I’ve been used by many people over the years for their own purposes. I am now an adult and in full control over my own life. I get to say who I want in that life, and how they fit. If all you’re going to do is cause trouble for me, then I choose to not want you in my life.”

My automatic reaction is to curl my top lip in derision. “Why should I care what you think of me?”

I had not cared about James’ opinion of me, so his son is even less of an influence over me. The tension in my shoulders and chest is still there, however. Harry’s lips quirk up into a half-smile, but he continues to eat, his attention focussed on his plate.

“You have no one else.”

My breath leaves me slowly as my stomach drops. This is also a remembered sensation from my childhood. Images flash through my mind: Sirius with a bleeding lip, Father downing yet another tumbler of scotch, Mother’s screeches echoing through the house. Closing my eyes and pressing my lips together, I push a breath out through my nose. He is correct, of course. There is no possible way I can deny it.

“That is why you seem to be so fascinated with me?” Re-opening my eyes, I glance up to see Harry watching me. “Because I have no one else?”

Harry nods. “Partially. Look, I know that you didn’t get along with your brother – and that I only knew him for a couple of years – but he is the connection we have. Well, him and Kreacher.” He takes another couple of mouthfuls of food before continuing. “I know what it’s like to be alone in the world. Until I came to Hogwarts, I had no one, either. My relatives neglected me and I had no friends.”

It still feels like my stomach has turned to lead. Trying to swallow down the feeling, I nod slowly. _Friendship_. That is what it seems Harry is offering me. My instincts fight against the idea still, but what other choice do I have? He is completely correct about the state of my life, such as it is. I have been legally acknowledged as being dead for the past two decades, and everyone I knew and loved is dead. When Harry’s cutlery clacks down on his plate again, I glance up.

“We don’t have to discuss Sirius, or my parents, or anything like that. Just… It’s nice to have friends; people you can talk to.” His eyes are sad for a few seconds before he glances towards the door. “Of course, if you don’t want me to come back, that’s no problem. I won’t stop Kreacher from coming with food or whatever, but I will stay clear of you, if that’s what you want.”

I cannot deny that the suggestion is tempting. The fear and nerves are still clutching at my insides, however, lending me a sense of dread over being abandoned. It is a childish impulse that I detest and have fought against my entire life. When I apparently take too long to respond, Harry sighs.

“Look, I’ll give you a few days. I know that you don’t want to like me, but I swear that I am not my father. I’d like to get to know you as _you_ , not through other’s opinions of you.” He stands and offers me his hand. “I’ll be back next week?”

A strange combination of emotions roils through me. Acting on automatic, I take Harry’s hand.

“Next week.”

I know I’ll need the time to sort through just what has happened today, and what I have learned. My shoulders and chest only begin to relax when Harry has exited the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick question: does anyone think I should tag for implied past child abuse? Because Regulus is probably going to keep thinking about it, but it won't be explicit.  
> :)


	14. Chapter 14

I despise being forced to acknowledge when I am wrong. I always have and I always will. Not that I believe that I am completely wrong about Harry. My instincts when it comes to people have always been fairly good, so I see no reason to mistrust them now. Moving slowly towards the darkened window of my hospital room, I clasp my hands behind my back.

I still do not know what I am going to say to Harry when he returns in a day or so. I must assume that a lot of the people I associated with when I was young – well, _younger_ – have either been arrested or killed during the war. Being who I was, my friends all had the same ambitions as I did: to become Death Eaters. It was seen as the be-all-end-all; the pinnacle of what one could achieve. Being recognised as being of importance to someone like the Dark Lord was something that many of my contemporaries aspired to. A disbelieving sound huffs out of me as I shake my head. We did not know back then that we were all expendable; that immortality was Voldemort’s only real desire. Not that any of this helps me with the decision-making process. All it really does is remind me that Harry was correct in telling me that I have no one left in the entire world.

Friendship does not seem that bad of a thing. It is not like I am agreeing to marry him, or anything like that. If it turns out that we cannot stand each other, then it will become clear fairly soon. But then, would it really be wise to turn down the opportunity presented? Harry _must_ have some kind of influence within the Ministry. The man who defeated the greatest threat to the wizarding world would have unprecedented access to all kinds of information that could come in handy. Perhaps he would be a good person to befriend, even if it is only for his power? Arguments and counter-arguments race through my mind, all revolving around the offer Harry has made me. My hands flex as I begin to pace the length of the wall.

Time. I need more time to decide something as important as this. This one decision has the potential to shape the rest of my life. My friends in school were all very carefully chosen. Each one of them was a pure-blood from an ancient line, or someone who had the kind of cunning and influence that I could make use of. Then again, look where that got them in the end. Is that way of making connections with people the best way, or am I fooling myself?

One of my knees cracks as I pace and I pause, wincing. Alistair, the therapist, has informed me that things like this will continue to happen until I have my full strength and range of motion back. Placing a hand on the windowsill, I use it to balance as I bend my knee a few times, trying to work the ache out of it.

I know, in the end, what this decision will most likely come down to. Logically, it can only go one way. The Ministry will, obviously, not allow anyone who used to be a Death Eater to contact another ex-Death Eater. They will have clamped down on those connections the second they started dragging people out of that water. What this will all come down to is whether I am willing to risk making friends with someone who is so closely related to someone I detested with all my being. My old friends, even if they are still alive, will not be an option. The Ministry will not allow it. Placing my foot back down, I let out a sigh. I know what I have to do, even if the idea doesn’t play well with my instincts. A glance towards where the window would be if it hadn’t been blocked out sends a slight sense of claustrophobia through me.

I am still not allowed to have the lights at a normal level in my room, which is why the window is blocked. That is something that I must remember to ask Healer Bell about. Truth is, I am more used to being outside in the fresh air, or at least being able to freely wander around my house. This enforced stillness will, eventually, get the better of me, I know. A soft knock on my door startles me enough that I jump before spinning to face the newcomer.

“What?” I clear my throat as I frown, embarrassment rushing through me at my loss of manners. “Yes? It is unlocked.”

I barely bite back another sigh as Alistair enters the room, his ever-present clipboard in hand. It seems that the ache in my knee is only set to get worse.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late again. Sorry! :/

“Regulus?”

My skin tingles and my stomach flips with nerves at Harry’s soft knock on my door. I have been both dreading and anticipating this meeting. Clenching my hands by my sides, I take a deep breath and release it slowly.

“It’s open.”

Harry offers me what appears to be a slightly nervous smile as he enters the room. He is standing just inside the door, his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans again. He always seems awkward or nervous about something, although I am certain that I am the one supposed to be nervous about this moment right here.

“So…” Harry rocks onto his toes, then back to his heels.

“Please, take a seat.”

I wave a hand towards one of the chairs I have had the staff bring into the room. They make the space a little cramped, but I figure there is nothing that can be done about it. Hospital rooms were never made to be spacious. I wait for Harry to choose a seat – the one closest to the door – before sitting myself.

“Alistair tells me you’re doing well. Much better than expected, actually?”

This is not the opening conversation I have been expecting. Pressing my lips together, I quickly run through my latest physical therapy session and begin to nod slowly.

“I believe I am, yes.”

The truth is that, while the sessions are going well, they are difficult. My body is put under constant pressures that I am not used to. The thing is, subconsciously, I knew that it would not be an easy thing to go through. I knew that, having been floating, weightless, in freezing cold water for nearly two decades, my body would not want to cooperate with some of the demands I make of it. My muscles have not atrophied, but they also have not been used properly in all that time. Alistair has informed me on more than one occasion that this is normal, despite how wrong it feels.

“That’s a good sign.”

I glance over to Harry. I can see no mocking in his face, nor hear it in his tone.

“That is what Alistair keeps saying as well.”

Harry’s quick responding grin is unexpected. “You don’t agree with him?”

“I…”

A sigh escapes me before I can prevent it. I have not spoken to anyone other than Alistair and Healer Bell about what these therapy sessions feel like physically. They are such a drain on me, not only on a physical level, but on a mental one as well. Another quick glance over to Harry pulls forth the desire to just spill everything out to him. My naturally cautious instincts prevent me from just blurting it all straightaway, however. My hands clench on the arms of the chair.

“May I be completely truthful with you?”

I can see the surprise on Harry’s face. He does not even bother to try to cover it up.

“Of course.”

Nervous tension runs along my shoulders and I roll them automatically. Being able to speak to someone about these sessions would be nice. Actually, being able to speak to someone about these sessions _who isn’t involved in them in any way at all_ is, in fact, highly appealing. Alistair and Healer Bell only tell me that this is a normal reaction. Healer Bell even went so far as to suggest that my pain levels do not seem to be higher than anyone else’s. It was, truthfully, rather insulting. Harry, however, is not in the medical field. There is a possibility that he will just sit there and listen to me. Clearing my throat, I shift slightly in my chair.

“The truth is… Well, everything hurts. _Everything_. Walking, stretching; even moving the joints in the way they are supposed to be able to move in someone of my relative age bracket.” I pause to pinch the bridge of my nose as the memory of trying to fall asleep with aching muscles plays through my mind. “It is irritating and distracting. I cannot focus on anything else other than the pain, sometimes.”

A low hum from Harry drags my attention back to him. Leaning forward in the chair, he has placed his forearms on his knees and is nodding slowly.

“I didn’t have to do physical therapy after the end of the war. They did put me through psychological therapy sessions, however. They had to check to see whether I had taken any mental damage from everything that I went through.”

“I would assume that having a stark raving madman chasing you since birth would do some kind of damage, yes?”

Harry grins again. “Yeah, it did. And not just to me, either. There are two or three whole generations of people who have some kind of mental issue due to these wars. Everything from PTSD, to depression, to paranoia, to complete mental breakdowns. I don’t think there was anyone involved who didn’t come out of it completely ‘normal’.” I can hear the quotation marks in his tone. “You know they’ll probably want to examine you at some point as well, right?”

My gaze drops down into my lap again. “I suspected they would want to, yes. I just hope that they can manage to hold off until the physical sessions are over.”

“I believe that that could be arranged, Mr. Black.” I jump at the sound of Alistair’s voice coming from the doorway. He is standing just inside the door, smiling at the two of us. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I just wanted to inform you that I’ll be about ten minutes late.”

With that, he bows his head and exits the room again. A quick look at the clock on the far wall tells me that I have been sitting talking with Harry for the past half hour, despite it feeling like he has only just arrived. I shake my head slowly.

“Well,” Harry begins before cutting himself off with a groan as he stretches. “You seem a lot more relaxed than when I first arrived.”

Blinking, I look down at myself. Where my hands had been clenched on the arms of the chair, they are now resting lightly; where my shoulders had been tensed with nerves, they are now relaxed. I return my gaze to Harry, a slight frown on my face. He is standing beside his chair, his hands in his pockets again.

“I…”

I have to stop, as I do not know how to respond to this. In fact, I do not even know what Harry is implying.

“Talking about it all can help, believe me.” Harry grins again when my frown deepens. “That’s what friends are good for.”

He holds out his hand for me to shake. I stare unblinkingly at it for longer than I really should. Eventually, I nod slowly.

“It is, yes.”

I reach out to shake Harry’s hand, then rise to show him to the door. It seems that the decision of whether to make friends with Harry or not has been taken from me. It is a fascinating turn of events, one that I know I will be examining later on, after Alistair leaves.


	16. Chapter 16

A loud groan escapes me as I sink beneath the warm, bubbly water. My eyes slide closed as I breathe deeply. My head swims with the scent of lavender floating up from the surface of the water.

Healer Bell told me once that they didn’t know which way the people pulled from the water would react to the idea of bathing. Some of us apparently reacted the exact same way I have: I enjoy the sensation of immersing myself in a deep pool of water. There is something strangely comforting about it to me. Others, however, are apparently terrified. Understandably, of course. Having been drowned – or worse – and made to float in your grave for two decades is something that is bound to stay with you. The strangely comforting sensation I get from the water isn’t the only reason I enjoy the feeling of bathing, however. Lying up to my chin in the water allows my mind to drift; gives me time to think over what has happened to me since I awoke.

Harry has been true to his word. He has been visiting on a semi-regular basis and has not interfered with Kreacher’s wishes to serve me as he used to. I believe I am most grateful to him for that, as Kreacher truly is a great comfort to me. He is a little part of the home I lost so long ago and brings his own version of reassurance to me, even if it is as servant and master. Sinking lower in the bathtub, I blow air out of my nose, creating even more bubbles.

It has been two weeks since the conversation I had with Harry. It is a little weird to me, but I believe that he is actually relaxing a little more each time he visits. It is nothing immediately noticeable, but the awkwardness that he has shown so often is slowly melting away the better I get to know him. As promised, we do not speak of Harry’s father or my brother, but I have discovered that we do actually have things in common. Quidditch, for example. He was also a Seeker in school, just as I was, and a rather good one, if he is to be believed. His taste in professional teams, however, leaves something to be desired. The Chudley Cannons indeed…

I let out a scoffing noise as I cup the water and throw it up and over my head. My hair hangs, dripping, down in front of my face and I let out a sigh. Just as the aging process was suspended in the water by the spell, so was the growth of my hair. Now that the spell does not have any effect over me, I have noticed that my hair now hangs long enough to reach my shoulders. This is yet another strange sensation. Sirius was the one in our family who rebelled by changing his appearance, not me. I was always the straight-laced sibling. Short hair, neat clothing, no piercings or tattoos for me. I obeyed my parents in everything, even down to their wishes about my appearance. It feels… almost defiant in some way. Deviant, even. Flicking it out of the way, I continue washing.

When the water has cooled enough to convince me to get out of the bath, I let out another sigh. I automatically attempt to cast a warming charm in the room as I emerge from the water before remembering once again that I have no wand. I was never a true expert in wandless magic, and none of the spells or charms I have tried since awakening have worked. Recalling the sensation of having a wand in my hand causes my fingers to twitch, but there is nothing to be done about it. No one has even mentioned my wand in front of me, so I have to assume that none of them were recovered from the cave. As I dry myself the slow way, my towel brushes roughly over the scarred remains of my Dark Mark.

A shudder runs through me as I stare down at it. I had not expected the Mark to be a temporary thing when it was first burned onto my skin. I had assumed that the Dark Lord would be forever, and so would my Mark. Curling my fingers, I scrape my nails down the scar. This one action – deciding to take the Mark – had such an enormous influence over my life. And not just my life, either, but also over my ‘death’, such as it was. One mistake – and that is definitely what it was, I know that now – and my entire life was overtaken.

The scar burns as I scrape at it. Not hard enough to draw blood, but just hard enough to make myself _feel_ it. I have spent countless nights wishing it away. I know that it will be with me forever, however. As I watch the red marks from my nails form, a part of my conversation with Harry comes back to me.

_You know they’ll probably want to examine you at some point as well, right?_

That is what he said to me during that conversation a fortnight ago. Psychological therapy. Forcibly removing my nails from my scarred Mark, the thought occurs to me that it would probably be a good idea.


	17. Chapter 17

“No, Caradoc, you know you aren’t permitted to enter anyone else’s room without their permission.”

A strange tingle runs down my spine. The words were muffled by the closed door of my room, but it is clear that the speaker is near. _Caradoc Dearborn_. I remember him well. Tall and solidly built, he had been a Beater for Gryffindor a few years ahead of me at Hogwarts. A vague memory surfaces of seeing his name in a long list of Auror graduates the year I turned seventeen, but that is all I know about his life after school. It is curious that he is here of all places, though. Placing my utensils down on my plate, I offer Kreacher a small smile.

“Thank you, Kreacher. That was wonderful, as always.”

Standing from the table that the staff sets up for my lunch every day, I stretch my arms over my head. I have not been told the names of anyone else who has been pulled from the water, but I must assume that some of the names would be at least vaguely familiar. So many people ‘went missing’ during the war that it stands to reason that some of them would have ended as I did.

“I know some of these people, Healer.” Dearborn’s deep rumble of a voice feels almost as though it is vibrating through me. “Or, I _knew_ them. Some were in school at the same time I was.”

“That doesn’t matter. You can’t just barge on into someone else’s room. You aren’t an Auror anymore and, even if you were, you still couldn’t without express permission.”

The voices fade a little as they clearly make their way down the hall outside my room. Stepping forward, I reach for the handle of the door, intending to take a quick look and see just where it is Dearborn has made off to, when a knock sounds and it opens on its own.

“Oh, _shit_! Sorry.”

A bright, blinding light hits me directly in the eyes, causing me to stumble backwards a few steps. With the dimness of the light in my room, I always forget that real lights have this effect on my eyes now. Shielding them with my hand, I blink rapidly. I jump when a hot hand grips my bicep and pushes me out of the light coming in from the hall.

“Harry?”

The only response I receive is a string of language so foul I cannot help but to smile, despite the watering of my eyes. The hand leaves my arm and I hear the sound of the door closing a couple of seconds later.

“I really didn’t mean to do that. Sorry.”

Blinking my eyes open, I stare at the vaguely Harry-shaped blob before me. “That is a rather inventive grasp of the English language you have.”

“What? Oh!” Reaching up, he scrubs a hand along the back of his neck. “Yeah. Ron’s brothers have had a bit of a bad influence over me, I guess.”

_Ron_. Harry has mentioned Ronald Weasley and his family on several occasions, but has never really gone into any detail as of yet. Considering we have been avoiding any mentions of various family members, I find this a little strange. Would it not make sense for him to mention his friends?

“You don’t say much about them. The Weasley family,” I add when Harry merely stares at me. “I have been told stories about when you were in school and several anecdotes about working together, but you don’t go into detail about them.”

Harry stares at me for a long time, long enough that I begin to fidget a little under his gaze. “You… You wouldn’t mind? I mean, I consider the Weasleys family, so I have no problem telling you about them, I just figured… Well, I figured you’d get bored.”

It is Harry’s turn to fidget as I pin him with a _look_. “Harry. I am stuck in this tiny room all day long. You, Healer Bell, and Alistair are the only people I have contact with. _Any_ news of the outside world would be highly appreciated.”

“Oh!” The smile that lights Harry’s face shows all the enthusiasm of his true youth, rather than the almost haggard face he shows most of the time. “Oh, that’s brilliant. Well, you see…”

The next two hours consist of a detailed account of the Weasley family. Harry starts with Arthur, whom I only vaguely remember mentions of when I was a child. He was a cousin of mine, I believe, if memory serves. He is a cousin of mine, although how far removed, I do not recall. Molly Prewett is also someone I only have very vague memories of. Her brothers, however, were infamous in the Death Eater circles. I know for a fact that there were several people out to take them down. It does not come as a shock to discover that they succeeded in the end.

Harry stumbles a little over his description of two members of the Weasley family: Fred and Ginny. The explanation for Fred is understandable, as his death must have hit them all hard. While I did not get along with my own brother, I know loss. Ginny, however, Harry is a little vaguer about. When I question him about her, his cheeks tinge a bright pink.

“She, well… We…” He ducks his head, his cheeks burning. “Weusedtodate.”

My eyebrows shoot up towards my hairline. “Excuse me?”

Harry huffs out a breath. “Don’t make me say it again.”

I leave him to stew on it for a few more seconds. Watching as he squirms, I have to smile. When he glances up, a sheepish look on his face, I shake my head.

“You _dated_ your _best friend’s sister_.”

“I get it, alright?” He stands, waving his hands through the air as he speaks rapidly. “I totally understand it. She is Ron’s sister. And I… we… Yeah, we did. For a year and a half, we _did_. In as many places as possible, really. And you know what? It was good! _We_ were good. Ginny’s an amazing girl, but it just wasn’t going to go anywhere.”

Unable to help myself, I raise a hand to cover my smile. “You not only dated her, but you dumped her as well?”

“What? No!”

“So much for Gryffindor loyalty.”

“No! No, look, _she_ dumped _me_. I swear!”

I can feel my smile widening. I am unsure how long I am going to be able to hide it from Harry, so I duck my head.

“The saviour of the wizarding world got _dumped_?”

Harry is silent for a few seconds. I keep my head down, afraid that he will see my smile.

“Are you laughing at me?”

There is a combination of disbelief and laughter to his voice. I risk glancing up just in time to see the realisation that, yes, I am laughing at him hit Harry. Indignation crosses his face a mere second before he bursts into laughter. The smile threatening to give me away finally breaks through and I join Harry in his mirth. What exactly it is I am laughing about, I do not know, but it has been so long since I had anything to laugh about that it feels really good. Doubling over, I wrap my arms around my stomach. This is how Healer Bell finds us.

“Well, gentlemen, it’s good to see the two of you getting along.”

I try to compose myself, I really do. It is difficult, however, when every time I glance up, Harry is smirking at me. Healer Bell waits us out, an amused glint in her eyes.

“My apologies, Healer Bell,” I manage after a while.

“Yeah, sorry, Katie. I just…” Harry’s hand goes to cover his mouth again as he huffs out another breath. “I haven’t had much to laugh about recently.”

“Perfectly fine, Harry. I do, however, have to ask you to leave now. It’s time for Mr. Black’s injections.”

With a brief handshake, Harry exits the room. I cannot help but think that his words to me a fortnight ago may have been correct once again: it _is_ nice to have friends.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could have sworn that I added a new chapter last week! Apparently I didn't, though! Sorry. :/

My eyes trace along one of the cracks in the ceiling. I have not returned to my old habit of staring blankly up from my bed, but I have discovered that this position helps me to think. Stretching my hands behind my head, I let out a slow breath. I have been tossing around a thought, debating with myself whether I should go ahead with it or not.

I want to ask Harry about Sirius. It is probably a bad idea. In fact, considering how he reacted the last time the topic turned to my brother, this is probably one of the stupider ideas I have had. But, the fact remains that I am the sole surviving Black family heir. I _should_ know what happened to the previous heir, even if it is only for family records.

My eyes stop their tracing as a strange sensation washes through me. No, I am not the Black family heir anymore, am I? I am the head of the family. The air rushes out of my lungs and my eyes sting as a deep sorrow closes in on me. Sitting up, my arms wrap around me as the hollow feeling that became so familiar a while back when I first realised that my mother had died fills me. Lowering my head, I allow my hair to cover my face, blocking the room out.

I am the sole survivor of a long and noble line. If the spell Harry cast had not worked, my family name would have been lost to the ages. It has been a while since I have been hit by this realisation and the sensation is still as strong now as it was when it first occurred to me. Breathing slowly, I try to get myself back under control. Closing my eyes to further block the room out, I concentrate hard.

_You already knew this_ , I tell myself. _You already knew and you have dealt with it. You cannot go back to having a breakdown every time you think of Mother. It is unhealthy._

My hands shake as my breath shudders out of me. Taking another, even slower breath, I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, hoping to block out the emotions. My focus is so turned inward that when a soft hand lands on my shoulder, my reaction is almost violent. Jumping and swinging a hand up in defence, I have a curse ready on my tongue before I realise that it is Healer Bell standing next to me. The look in her eyes is sympathetic.

“I’ve been wondering how long it would take everything to finally hit you.”

My mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes out. It takes what seems hours for me to lower my hand.

“Everyone reacted differently to being pulled out of the water, Mr. Black. Some of them have had reactions like this almost immediately. Others took a month or two. You and several others have held out. We believe that some will never come to accept what has happened to them.”

My mouth opens again a few times before I am capable of speech. “I am the very last of my line.” When Healer Bell merely smiles a sad smile, I shake my head. “The _very last_.”

Running her hand along the back of my shoulders, she offers me nothing other than sympathy. “I will arrange for the therapist to see you as soon as possible.”


	19. Chapter 19

“Therapy isn’t so bad, you know.”

I barely resist the urge to roll my eyes. Sitting on the edge of my bed, my hands twist together, twining my fingers around and around.

“It’s natural to be nervous. I was when they first told me that was what they were going to do.”

“You are different to me.”

Harry does not resist the urge to roll his eyes. He is still sitting at the table we used for lunch today, but the chair he is using is tilted back onto the back legs. His feet swing in the air as he rocks the chair slowly back and forth.

“How? How am I different to you?” He holds up a hand when I go to respond. “And you can’t use the whole ‘but I _died_ ’ thing with me because, guess what? I died too.”

I huff a breath out my nose. With the tiny, knowing smile on his face, Harry really does resemble his father. I take a couple of seconds to not only push those thoughts out of my mind – they have gotten me nowhere in the past – but also to compose my thoughts.

“You were raised differently than I was.”

Harry snorts. “Yeah, _you_ were wanted.”

“That is not what I meant and you know it.” When the only response I receive is a raised eyebrow, I sigh. “We both went through traumatic things, yes. But _therapy_ …”

I lack the words to explain how I truly feel about this. The Black family stand on their own. We make alliances with needed people, but we do not rely on anyone. While I can completely acknowledge my need to speak to some professional about what has happened to me, the very idea of allowing a stranger that close to me is horrifying.

“It feels like… Like I have failed somehow.” The legs of Harry’s chair clatter down onto the floor as he swings it forward fully. I lower my eyes, however, not wanting to see his reaction to what I am saying. “My family are self-reliant. That is the way I was raised; to never accept help from anyone. We deal with things inhouse, as it were. Accepting this kind of help…”

Harry lets out a gusty sigh when I pause. His feet – the only part of him in my line of sight – shuffle a little as he shifts on the chair. 

“I was in no position to refuse it. I was a complete wreck after the end battle. My friends were injured, dying, or already dead. I knew children who had murdered people. C _hildren_. It… They gave me no choice. Whether that was part of their need to not have their ‘Saviour’ cracking up in front of thousands of people every time they trotted me out, or for my own good, I don’t know.” I am tempted to glance up when he pauses, but resist the urge. “It did help, though. I know that I’d be in much worse shape now if I hadn’t talked to Shannon, my therapist.”

Silence surrounds us as he falls quiet again. My hands clench and unclench on the side of my bed.

“I know it will help,” I finally respond after what seems an eternity. “I just…”

“It’s difficult breaking away from family expectations?”

When I look up to meet his eyes, Harry is smiling at me. There is something behind that smile, some kind of knowledge of something that I cannot possibly begin to comprehend. I push the feeling away for the time being, however.

“My family expected a lot from me.”

Harry nods. “The pureblood families always do.”

I nod slowly. The action is not really me agreeing with what Harry has said, but more just something to do to let him know that I heard him. There is a reason the pureblood families expect so much from their children, but I doubt that he would be willing to hear me out on that aspect of family life.

“You know,” Harry begins before pausing again. He glances around the room before meeting my eyes, seeming a little nervous. “You know, you can kind of, er… Make your own family now, right?”

I sit and blink at him. Has magical theory advanced so far that men are now capable of getting pregnant on their own? I shake my head the second the thought enters my mind. That cannot be what Harry is talking about. I try to puzzle through his meaning for a few seconds before he takes pity on me and explains.

“You don’t have the weight of your family’s expectations on you anymore. You couldn’t follow that belief system anymore anyway, because Voldemort is dead. So, why not just create your own family? Find the people you get along with the best and they can be your family.” He shrugs. “It’s kind of what I did.”

I have, of course, heard of the theory of found families. I never thought such a thing would apply to me, however. Before I can think of responding, Harry stands.

“Sorry, but I have to get going. I’ve got a meeting with Kingsley and he gets kind of shirty if I don’t show up.”

“Of course.”

I nod and offer my hand, acting more on autopilot than anything else. Harry accepts it, but also slaps a hand down on my shoulder, grabbing my attention completely.

“Think about it. You don’t have to be constrained by what your family thought you should be doing anymore. Your life is entirely yours.”


	20. Chapter 20

My life is my own to lead as I see fit. I can make my own decisions about who I am and how I fit into this new society. 

These are concepts that I know I will not take to very easily. I am simply not designed to think of only myself, no matter what certain relatives of mine would have once claimed. I was raised to think of the family. How do my actions reflect on them? What kind of reputation am I bringing to my name? Does what I do and say sound like something a Black would do and say? It is unnatural for me to consider myself before my family’s reputation.

I have said as much to Harry already, since he was the one to point these facts out to me. I am not sure he understood, though, not really. I am aware of our different upbringings – and those nightmare Muggles he was raised by – and do not really expect him to understand pure-blood politics and values. They have been drilled into me from a very young age, however, so I know that I will have trouble trying to break myself away from them.

“Good morning, Master.”

Warmth rushes through me as Kreacher enters the room, a basket held tightly in the hand that does not hold his cane. He offers me a low bow.

“Good morning, Kreacher.”

“Kreacher hopes Master is well today. He has brought a lot of Master’s favourites for lunch.”

I should be interested in the food Kreacher has put so much time and effort into. I know I should. It would be rude of me not to be. I am not, however. Looking at Kreacher as he makes his way slowly into the room, a thought occurs to me.

“Kreacher?”

He pauses, staring up at me with wide eyes. “Yes, Master?”

“I wonder…” I pause, frowning, unsure of how to continue. “I wonder if I may ask you a question and receive a completely honest answer?”

Kreacher is too well-trained to show any expression beyond a mild interest. Still, he does pause and look at me for a couple of seconds before responding.

“Kreacher is always honest with you, Master.”

Unable to help it, I smile. “I do not doubt that, Kreacher. What I am asking for is not the answer of a loyal house-elf, however.”

Kreacher has not moved. He stares at me with those wide eyes, unblinking and slightly unnerving. Eventually, he bows his head.

“Kreacher will tell Master the entire truth as he sees it.”

A sense of relief surprises me, and I smile. “Thank you, Kreacher.” I take a couple of seconds to compose my thoughts before meeting Kreacher’s eyes again. “This might sound like an unusual question, but I will appreciate any truthful answer you can give me. Do you believe Mother, or anyone else in the family, would look down upon me if they knew that I was seeking assistance for my mental health?”

Finally, Kreacher’s composure breaks. A sympathetic understanding softens his oddly squashed features, causing a responding clenching of my chest.

“Kreacher?”

“Kreacher is proud of Master–”

He breaks off when my eyes close. A sharp pain makes itself known in the middle of my chest. I already knew the answer to my question before I asked it, I realise. I know that my family, Mother and Father in particular, would think less of me for seeking this kind of assistance. A small hand on my knee startles me out of the pain that has begun to surround me.

“Kreacher is proud of Master Regulus. No matter what has happened, Kreacher is proud of Master.”

I swallow hard. Pressing my lips together tight, I let out a sigh through my nose.

“Thank you, Kreacher.”

It seems that Harry was correct again. Kreacher has been part of my family since well before I was born. If I choose to make my own family, as Harry suggested, I would not go wrong with starting with him.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for no chapter last week. Real life sucks right now. I'd say to expect me to skip a couple of chapters as it comes closer to Christmas, sadly.

_“You have failed me, Regulus.”_

_“No, no, please…”_

_Kneeling on the hallway carpet of Grimmauld Place, I stare up into my father’s face. The disgust that curls his top lip sends fear shooting through me. I am the loyal son, the one who never breaks the rules. Sirius is the one who is constantly in trouble for disobedience and for disappointing our parents._

_“Associating with Muggle lovers and Mudbloods.”_

_“No, Father, please…”_

_Father crosses his arms over his chest, looking down his nose at me. “You are a disgrace.”_

_My stomach lurches. Sweat is plastering my hair to my head, and running down my back. I shake my head as I reach out to try to placate my father._

_“Please, Father. I’m sorry. I’ll try harder. I never meant to–”_

_“Enough!”_

_I flinch at the sharp tone. I have never once given my father reason to discipline me since I was a small child. Kneeling here before him, however, I fear I have pushed him too far._

_“Associating with that Potter boy. A_ half-blood _.” His top lip curls in disgust again at the mention of Harry. “A true Black does not lower himself to that level. A true Black is self-dependent. A_ true _Black has pride in himself and his family._ You _are not a true Black.”_

“No!”

Jolting up in my bed, a gasp in a deep breath. My hands are shaking uncontrollably. My heart is thudding against my ribs. From my shoulders down to my waist feels weak and fluttery. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to stop the trembling.

A dream. That is all it was. I squeeze my eyes shut tight as I draw my knees up to my chest to rest my forehead on. Taking deep breaths, I try to calm my heart.

I know exactly what has caused this: all the worry I have put myself under recently about whether my parents would approve of me accepting help for my mental health. Well, that, combined with all the new information that has been forced on me over the… however long it has been since I woke up. It has piled on top of me all at once. Stress has never been a good thing for me. I must also assume that, in its weakened state, my body will react much worse than usual to being put under such pressures.

Breathing slowly and steadily, I tell myself over and over again that it was just a dream. A nightmare. My parents, as much as the fact hurts, are both dead. What they would think of me and my life right at this point in time can have no true effect over me. Just as my heartrate is beginning to calm down, the door to my room crashes open and Healer Bell rushes in.

“Is everything alright?”

I gasp as the shock of having her in my room so suddenly causes another spike to my heartrate. Unwrapping one arm from around my middle, I hold it up as a shield against the bright light coming in through the door.

“Healer Bell?”

“Sorry.” The door closes much quieter than it opened a couple of seconds previously. “Your alarm went off. The blasted things clang like the devil when the patient’s heartrate spikes abnormally.”

She moves over towards me, her hands held to the sides so I can see them at all times. Taking a couple of deeper breaths again, I lower my arm.

“I have an alarm?”

“Yes. All the patients on this level do. They are a modified version of a warding charm.” She holds her wand up for me to see. “Do you mind if I check your vitals?”

Her eyes scan over me, clearly checking to see whether I am physically well. I am still trembling, which I must assume she can see.

“It was a dream. A nightmare.”

She nods. “Yes, I figured once I got a look at you. May I check them anyway? Just in case.”

I nod, giving her silent permission. It is an effort to unwrap my arms from around my middle. Doing so leaves me feeling exposed, but I know that Healer Bell would never take advantage of that fact. Stretching out on the bed, I watch as she waves her wand slowly over me. A small line of concentration forms between her eyes as she casts the charm wordlessly.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

My instinct is to shut her out. Sharp words are on the tip of my tongue before she meets my eyes and smiles. It is such a simple gesture. There is nothing behind the smile; nothing malicious, at least. The words die almost instantly. Glancing away, I stare off into the middle distance.

“I know my family would not approve of the help I am receiving here in the hospital.”

Healer Bell hums. “A few other pure-bloods who were pulled out of the water have said the same thing to me.”

“How…”

I stop, not knowing what the rest of the question was going to be. I can feel Healer Bell casting some kind of diagnostic charm over me, but beyond the quiet sound of her whispered spells, the room is silent.

“A lot of people have to deal with the disapproval of their parents and family members, Mr. Black,” she informs me gently once she finishes with the charms. “The telling thing is how we choose to deal with that disapproval.”

I meet her eyes, expecting to see the practical professionalism I am so used to seeing from her. The sympathy that she offers me causes my chest to constrict.

“How am I supposed to ‘deal’ with it if both my parents and my brother are dead?”

The hand she places on my shoulder feels hot. “That is something your therapist can help you with. Try to get a little more sleep. Dawn isn’t too far off.”

I shake my head as she exits the room. It would have been good advice, if my therapist wasn’t the person who was actually making this anxiety I’m feeling worse. Still, I lie down properly again and close my eyes. It would not do to show up to my first therapy session barely able to keep my eyes open.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for being so erratic with this one! I swear I'll get better with the update schedule! Thank you all for not nagging me about it! :)

Physiotherapists are sadistic people. I am certain they take a gleeful pleasure in watching others suffer. Picturing them sitting in their offices, chortling away as they compare notes on who they tortured that day actually manages to make me smile a little. It does not last long, however.

I cannot help wincing as I seat myself on the very edge of my bed. My hips, thighs, knees, and calves hurt like nothing else ever has before. As if the whole stretching, and bending, and lunging caper was not bad enough, my physiotherapist has decided to add a large elastic band into the equation. An elastic band! Who thinks of such things? Groaning, I stretch out on the bed.

“Regulus?”

I scowl. “What?”

“Er… Are you alright? Should I call Katie?”

My legs throb seemingly in time to my heartbeat. The pain is not quite _true_ pain, however. There is a burn to my muscles, as though I have rarely used them before. As unusual as it sounds, I am fairly certain that the pain is coming solely from my muscles, rather than my bones. Letting out a small sigh, I shake my head.

“No. This isn’t something a Healer can solve, unfortunately.”

“Ah.”

Fighting back the urge to tell Harry to bugger off, I force myself into a sitting position. He is standing in the doorway, all his weight balanced on one leg as he leans against the jamb. I am once again hit by just how young he looks. I shake my head slightly to clear it.

“My physiotherapist has just left.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Harry responds, with a small smile.

“I am glad you find this amusing.”

Harry grins. “Sorry. I’m not laughing at you, I swear.” In response to my raised eyebrow, he begins to properly laugh. “I’m not, I promise you!”

Leaning forward, he wraps an arm around his stomach as he laughs. Shaking my head, I lie back down on the bed, figuring I will wait him out. Once he regains control over himself, he steps into the room and claims his usual chair.

“Sorry. Again.”

When I turn to look at him, Harry is still smiling. It is a fond smile, however, which just confuses me.

“A few of my friends had to do physio after the end of the war. Your reaction reminds me so much of them…” He breaks off again, still smiling. “It made me incredibly thankful that I was never injured badly enough to have to do that.”

“No, dying was apparently as bad as it got for you.”

Harry hesitates only a second before responding. “ _You’d_ know all about that.”

I believe it is shock that causes me to laugh at his defiant response. I do immediately regret it, as the clenching of my muscles causes the small of my back to protest, but I cannot help it. The hesitation, the defiant tone, the mere _look_ in Harry's eyes… something about the combination just tickles me. It is a knock at the door that sobers the both of us. When I look over, a man stands in the doorway. From his formal robes, I can surmise that he could only be one person: my new therapist.

“Mr. Regulus Black?”

My heart sinks. I have been dreading this moment for days now. Sitting up in the bed, I nod my head.

“I am Regulus, yes.”

“Pleased to meet you. My name is Godwin Preston. I have been assigned to be your therapist. I – oh!”

Godwin Preston hesitates as he steps into the room and spies Harry sitting just out of sight of the doorway. Amusement bubbles through me as I watch the man’s reaction. The widening of his eyes tells me that he has recognised Harry immediately, but it is the clenching of his hands that surprises me. I make a quick mental note to ask Harry about it later on.

“Mr. Potter.” Godwin bows his head slightly, in a rather more formal fashion than I believe the situation truly warrants. “How are you?”

“Hello, Godwin. I’m really good, thanks.”

Harry's demeanour is seemingly as casual as ever. I do not know him well enough yet to be able to read every reaction he has beyond the obvious ones, but it is clear that the two know each other. I glance between them as Harry stands to leave. I am able to catch a small shake of Harry's head that could just be a normal movement, but I do not think so.

“Er, there was actually a reason I was here.” Harry turns to me, effectively blocking Godwin out. “Some of my friends have been asking after you. I was wondering if you think you’re up to meeting one or two of them?”

Surprise rushes through me, automatically causing my eyebrows to rise. “Of course.”

It is a built-in reaction leftover from my childhood. My parents instilled proper manners in me, and refusing to meet a friend of a friend would be considered highly improper. Harry grins at me and stuffs his hands into his pockets.

“Great! I’ll see you in a few days, then.”

I am still glancing between the two of them as Harry exits the room. Once he has gone, however, I am left alone with my new therapist. Taking a deep breath, I indicate that he should take a seat. Nerves tingle through me, but I steel myself. I _can_ do this.


	23. Chapter 23

_Your life is your own to take charge of._

I have been told this now by not only Harry, but also by my new therapist. The idea still does not sit well with me. I simply do not know _how_ to ‘take charge’ of my own life. Especially considering I currently have no life to take charge over. What would I do? Demand a different lunch and dinner time? Try to convince someone to bring me robes that actually suit me? Stepping out of the shower, I roughly towel myself dry before stepping over to the sink.

I do not look like myself. Admittedly, the lighting in the small bathroom attached to my room is not the best, due to my light intolerance, but still. Leaning close to the mirror above the sink, I frown at my reflection.

I resemble my father more than my mother; always have. I have inherited the Black family wavy hair and grey eyes, just as Sirius did. They are the only parts of me currently recognisable as the person I had been before the cave. The rest of me looks… well, it looks like I have spent twenty-odd years dead in a cave. My skin is sickly pale and waxy-looking, and my cheeks and eyes are sunken. I used to be good-looking. Well, relatively. I always believed myself better-looking than Sirius, and he was always popular with anyone he set his eyes on, judging by some of the rumours I was privy to during school.

Perhaps this is something I can ‘take control’ over, then? One’s appearance is something that everyone is capable of controlling to their own liking, without reference to anyone else. And, as much as the idea of having long hair amused me at first, it is now beginning to annoy me. Grabbing a fistful of hair, I hold it out. Long and tangled from the shower, it curls around my fingers, some of it breaking off and falling to the floor. My top lip curls. Yes, _this_ is what I will start with.

“Right. Scissors.”

The bathroom is tiny. The only place a pair of scissors would be is the medicine cabinet that hides behind the mirror, but when I open it, there is only a spare toothbrush and a razor. I eye the razor for a few seconds before rejecting the idea. I want my hair cut, not butchered. With a sigh, I pull on my hospital pyjamas and move out into the bedroom proper to begin searching there. Before I can do more than stand in the middle of the room and spin in a slow circle, a knock at the door startles me.

“Yes?”

I know I should expect Harry to show up when he says he will. It still surprises me to see him every time, however. He grins at me as he enters.

“Hullo. You’re looking much happier than the last time I was here.”

I cannot help smiling back at him. Harry is always capable of cheering me up when he arrives, no matter the mood I begin the day in.

“Yes, well, not having to be tortured with elastic bands tends to brighten one’s mood, I find.”

The chuckle Harry gives in response sounds knowing. “I’d assume so, yeah.”

Before I can ask how he is, a second person enters the room. Tall and lanky, his red hair is so bright I blink in shock.

“Regulus, this is my friend, Ron Weasley.”

My manners kick in immediately. “Of course. Pleased to meet you.” I offer Ron my hand with a small, polite smile. “Harry has told me a bit about you and your family.”

“Oh, yeah?” Ron shoots Harry an indecipherable look. “We’ve technically already met, actually. Back in the cave. You were kind of… unconscious, though.”

I huff out an amused sound. “You’ll have to forgive me if my memory is a little foggy. Please, take a seat.”

It is Harry who transfigures the table usually used for lunch into a second chair for Ron. I settle down on the edge of my bed and flick the damp strands of hair over my shoulder.

“I’ve just been looking for a pair of scissors. The hair’s starting to annoy me.”

“Oh, there’s no way they’d have left a pair of scissors in a patient’s room.” Harry shakes his head, his expression earnest. “Too much of a risk.”

“A risk?” I ask, confusion running through me. “A risk of wha– _Oh_.” I feel a right dolt when it occurs to me what Harry is getting at. “They believe I would try to…?”

“A few people already have. Both after the war and during this.” He waves his hands around the room in general. “Some people just can’t deal with it all.”

“We lost some really good people after the war. By both their own hands and through others coming after them.” Ron’s voice is a little gruff. “They don’t take the chance these days. Anything that could be used as a weapon isn’t allowed in the patient’s rooms.”

A silence falls over the room that is a little uncomfortable. This is a rather melancholy conversation for me to be having with someone I have just met. Rolling my shoulders, I frown.

“I’ve been shaving, though. They gave me a razor.”

“A magically charmed razor.”

“What?” I blink as the confusion returns. “They now have razors charmed so they don’t cut?”

Harry grins. “Well, not the old cutthroat razors, but yeah. The ones they sell commercially don’t cut anymore.”

Both he and Ron look surprised when I huff out a frustrated sigh. “Then how am I supposed to get my hair cut in here? I assume that the hospital has not hired its own hairdressers in the time I was gone?”

“Well, we could…” Ron pauses, then glances to Harry. “I cut my own hair when we were on the run during the war…”

It sounds like a tentative suggestion. My gaze moves from him to Harry and back. Harry appears to be somewhat sceptical, a slight frown on his face.

“Hermione hated it.”

“Yeah, but Hermione’s a _girl_ , isn’t she?”

Harry lets out a sound that is part sigh, part long-suffering patience. “Yes, but I’m sure Regulus wouldn’t want you to cut a bald spot in his hair.”

“It wasn’t a bald spot!”

“What would you call it, then?”

“I have a weird hairline, alright?”

My eyes flick between them as they argue over whether they should cut my hair. Harry seems to think that it would be closer to a massacre if I allow it to go ahead. Ron, on the other hand, is getting more and more insulted at Harry doubting his hairdressing skills. It is amusing to watch, honestly. They appear to interact with each other as brothers do. Well, _normal_ brothers, anyway. Sirius and I were never normal in that sense. Their conversation only comes to an end when Healer Bell knocks on the door.

“Harry? And Ron! Nice to see you!”

“Hello, Katie,” Ron greets her, offering her his hand and chair. When she turns the chair down, he plops back down and spreads his long legs before him. “Oh, good. I’m exhausted.”

Healer Bell shakes her head, smiling. “Well, unfortunately for you, I have come with some bad news. I need to do Mr. Black’s daily physical assessment, so I need the two of you to exit the room for a little while.”

The look on Ron’s face could only be called disappointed. I have to hold back a smile. Meeting Harry's eyes, I can read amusement on his face as well.

“Maybe we can come back tomorrow or the next day? I can ask Kreacher to make some extra food?”

“That would be nice, yes.” I stand automatically when Harry and Ron stand. “It’s been a pleasure.”

“Yeah, mate,” Ron responds, with a wide grin. “Good to see you up and about, at least. It’ll be nice to have someone else around Grimmauld once you get out of here.”

He slaps a large hand down on my shoulder by way of a parting gesture. The mention of Grimmauld Place sticks in my mind, and I store it away to ask Harry about the next time I see him alone. I offer Harry a smile as he walks towards the door.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“If you’re up for it, then yeah. Oh, and,” he leans in and lowers his voice, “ask Katie about a hairdresser. You really don’t want to let Ron loose with his wand on your hair, believe me.”

With another cheerful smile, he exits the room. I can hear him and Ron talking as they make their way down the hallway outside. I shake my head as I lay down on the bed, getting ready for the examination. I don’t know what I was expecting from Ron Weasley, but this looks like it will be amusing, at the very least.


End file.
